


OUR LIVES

by Binaryalchemist



Series: HALF LIVES, WHOLE LIVES, OUR LIVES (post-mangaverse) [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Romance, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 180,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binaryalchemist/pseuds/Binaryalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy and Ed have been together for 15 years now—Roy prepares to fulfill his 520-cenz promise to make Amestris a democracy, but just before Roy’s 50th birthday and his wedding to Edward a tell-all biography about Mustang is published  that sets the country on its ear---because the ‘truth’ about the Promised Day is about to come out, with Roy miscast as the evil genius behind it all…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "THE PICKLOCKS OF BIOGRAPHERS"

**Author's Note:**

> CHARACTER NOTES  
> This series is set post-manga/Brotherhood--some of the characters are from some of the other official FMA releases in other media:
> 
> RUBY FROM WHITE VALLEY--protagonist of the FMA novel "Valley of White Petals" by M. Inoue, illustrated by Arakawa. She was a guard from Wisteria Valley. an enclave engineered to overthrow the Amestrian government. The coup was stopped by the Elrics and Ruby was out of a job. In this series, Roy hired her to be Ed's secretary and covert bodyguard. She and Ed have never really gotten along but she has always had a crush on Alphonse
> 
> DR. PITT RENBACK--protagonist of the FMA novel "Under The Faraway Sky" by M. Inoue, illustrated by Arakawa. He was Ed's best boyhood friend before he and Al went away to study alchemy. They loved to compete with one another at anything and everything and always argued who was taller. Pitt's father was a traveling doctor and at 13 Pitt had already apprenticed himself at a small rural clinic and had a knack for herbal medicine. In the novel, Ed was surprised and impressed with Pitt's new maturity and dedication to become a doctor. It is also revealed in the book that Pitt has loved Winry all of his young life but her obsession with Ed kept her from noticing. In the novel, 13 year old Pitt resigns himself to having lost Winry to Ed, who in turn is oblivious to Winry's obsession. In this series, when Pitt learns that Ed and Winry have amicably divorced, he pursues her to Rush Valley and begins a very slow and careful courtship of her, working side by side with her helping her automail patients. A strong bond of kinship began to grow between them which eventually led to a deeper relationship. Ed is quite happy about this. Alphonse is...confused about his feelings...sort of...
> 
> KING CLAUDIO RICO AERUGO--from the Wii games "Fullmetal Alchemist: Prince of the Dawn" and "Fullmetal Alchemist: Daughter of the Dusk". Hereditary ruler of Aerugo, formerly Prince of the Dawn, Claudio has now ascended the throne as the Sun King of his nation. He is tall, in his mid forties and has golden brown hair and keen blue eyes and is one of the few men who has been considered better looking than Roy Mustang. Roy is not overly fond of Claudio, his vast popularity and good looks a blow to Roy's ego. He also believes Claudio to be pompous, arrogant and conceited--traits that Roy would deny to his death ever possessing. For all that, Claudio is a shrewd politician and as masterful a manipulator as Roy. They may not like one another but there is mutual respect and cooperation.
> 
> JULIA AND ASHLEIGH CRICHTON-From the film "The Sacred Star of Milos". Brother and sister alchemists whose parents were killed by the alchemist Atlas, who removed and grafted Ashleigh's face onto his own and returned to Julia's life a decade later posing as her brother to gain her assistance in creating an philosopher's stone in Creta. Julia swallowed the stone and healed her brother's face before seeing the Gate and returning missing one leg. She bonds with Alphonse in the film and in this series has slowly developed a relationship with him--however since she is pledged to serve the people of Milos and Al is pledged to his own quest, they do not remain together in spite of feelings on both sides.

“He was a man, and as a man he knew  
Love, separation, sorrow, joy and death.  
He was a master of the tricks of war,  
The incarnation of a national dream…

You will know you have the whole of him  
Pinned down, mapped out, easy to understand-  
And so you have.  
All things except the heart  
The heart he kept himself, that answers all.  
For here was someone who lived all his life  
In the most fierce and open light of the sun…

Listened and talked with every sort of man,  
And kept his heart a secret to the end  
From all the picklocks of biographers.”

(from “The Army of Northern Virginia” by Stephen Vincent Benet)

The professor was rumpled and unshaven and curled up in an impossible knot with his head pillowed on the edge of the window. The seat beside him was covered with notebooks and there was a half-eaten sandwich on the tray table in front of him. His limp fingers were still wrapped around a cup of coffee, long since gone cold.

The boy lost his nerve. He swallowed nervously, the hands clutching the treasured book sweaty and cold. He’d heard the Great Man had a fearsome temper. He’d heard the Great Man did not suffer fools at all, gladly or otherwise. It had taken all his courage to sneak up to this railway car in hopes of just saying hello and maybe getting his treasured book signed.

Instead, the boy sighed at his own cowardice and was about to close the compartment door and slip back to his own seat when a loud crackle on the overhead speaker announced that they would be arriving in East City in thirty minutes.

The sleeper bolted awake, spilling his coffee everywhere and muttering something that sounded like “AL! AL, no! Don’t leave me!” Topaz eyes were wild with disorientation…

…then he noticed he was not alone.

Grimacing, he wiped the cold coffee off his hand using the sleeve of his dusty coat. “Hello.” The expression softened. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.”

The boy shrank back a little. “I’m…I’m sorry…I…”

There was a weary smile. “What’s your name?”

“Jordie…Jordie Lane.” His hands shook slightly as he held out the book Jordie had read from cover to cover, so excited over the theories it proposed. “I…I just wanted…”

“I won’t bite.’ The smile deepened into a grin and the rumpled man pushed back the messy blonde fringe that fell into his eyes and adjusted his glasses. “Honest. I think I recognize that,” he nodded at the volume. “You read it?”

Jordie’s fear evaporated. “Oh yes sir!” he blurted. “It’s so exciting! You really think people will be able to fly in rockets one day?”

The Great Man sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from falling asleep at such an unlikely angle. “Welllll,” he drawled, “it’s an interesting hypothesis. I wanted to bring Professor Gagarin’s theories to Amestris. A lot of the Drachman scientists didn’t want to listen to my old friend, but I thought if I translated Pyotir’s work and included my own research in experimental hwacha rockets used in the Xingese border wars in the 15th Century and their use of fireworks in battle it might help people accept his theories.” He yawned, stretched like a cat and took another bite of the now stale sandwich. “Looks like people might actually listen to him now that we got it in print”

“And you’re really going to test them at the Institute? Gosh!” the boy’s face was alight. “I wish I could see that!”

“You’ll see it if I blow myself up,” Edward Elric chuckled. ”I’ll be in the news. All over,” he added, snickering at his own jest.

By the time that Jordie’s mother located him the boy was chatting away with the famous inventor and aviator as easily as if they’d known each other for years. When she peeked into the compartment, Professor Elric waved a cheery greeting. “Bright kid you got here, Mrs. Lane. You ought to send him to Hohenheim. We need minds like his.”

The woman shook her head with a sigh. “Oh, he’s dying to go, but I’m afraid the tuition---“

“Gimme that.” Ed snatched the copy of The Exploration of Space By Means Of Reaction Devices (Исследование мировых пространств реактивными приборами) by Pyotir Gagarin and Edward Elric right out of the boy’s hands. He scribbled an autograph, a phone number and an address. “I want you to call this number soon as you get to East City. Call collect and ask for Sheska. Tell her I gave you the number and told you to call. Then write a letter to this address. Tell ‘em you want an application—ask for a packet for the Beacon Grant. They’ll want your school records or a letter from your teacher at home and one from your folks.” He glanced up at the incredulous look on Mrs. Lane’s face. “This isn’t a joke,” he told her gently. “And what the hell else is Mustang gonna do with his money? Buy more horses? And it ain’t like my kids need new shoes. There’s enough and more than enough. You get that paperwork to my office. We’ll worry over the details later. Now,” he began patting his pockets and flipping through the notebooks on the seat. “where the hell did I put my Owner’s Manual?”

“You mean this?” Jordie held up a black leather travel journal, unlocked and apparently overstuffed with photographs. One of the photos was slipping out and for a split second the boy and his mother got a glimpse of a very candid snap of the President with his shirt off, apparently fondling his own nipples.

Red faced, Ed snatched it away and tucked it inside his waistcoat. “Ooop! Sorry! That’s ….classified. Uh…undercover…information…” he stammered, relieved that Jordie had not accidentally opened the little wooden case that contained certain anatomically correct ‘research tools’ that Edward always took with him on long journeys away from home which had nothing to do with rocketry but were guaranteed to be classified as ‘reaction devices’, at least as far as Edward was concerned….

###

CENTRAL HQ

OCTOBER 1935

A bomb was about to go off in the office of the Fuhrer President.

It was sitting behind the desk, grinding its teeth behind a carefully schooled expression.

“Let me make absolutely sure I am hearing you correctly. You want me…the Fuhrer President of Amestris and Commander in Chief of the State Military…to stand on stage…in public…while a half-naked girl jumps out of my birthday cake?”

“Yessir!”

If Colonel Hawkeye had been in the room she would have advised the press team to take five very large steps back from the President’s desk and pray that they weren’t wearing anything exceptionally flammable.

There were faint rumbling sounds deep in the President’s throat, the same kind the staff used to hear whenever Hughes called Mustang up to gush over the wonders of his Gracia’s cooking or how limber and randy she was in bed despite her pregnancy. Hawkeye would have quickly noted the tension in his right arm and the incessant tap-tap-taptaptap cadence of his manicured fingertips on the desktop, always a warning that a phone was about to be slammed, thrown or ignited.

Hughes was gone, and short of Edward Elric there wasn’t a lot that could get under his skin nowadays, with the unpleasant exception of the Presidential Press Corp that currently swarmed around his office with bright smiles, waving their hands, showing him sketches and scribbles and using irritating superlatives like ‘amazing’ and ‘star-studded’ and ‘salute’. That last one particularly irked the President. A salute was a recognition of superior rank or profound respect. As far as Roy Mustang was concerned, having a sequin clad film siren jump out of a cardboard cake on stage before cooing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!” to the Fuhrer for the radio listeners was repugnant. Salute? The only ‘salute’ the proposed musical number was worth would be the salute inside the shorts of nearly every man in the nation. Even Falman reluctantly admitted that the buxom blonde was ‘aesthetically appealing’, especially romping in a swimsuit in the latest two-reeler at the local picture show. Aunt Chris called her Miss Mattressback and snorted with laughter every time The Ice Cream Blonde showed up in the papers fluttering several inches of fake eyelashes. Whores, whitewashed or otherwise, were too familiar to hold any charms for Roy. The blond in his bed might have had a shittier attitude but was a hundred times more exciting than a peroxide doxie with bee-stung lips.

As for this publicity stunt with The Ice Cream Blonde leaping out of Roy’s birthday cake?

“I think not.”

A half dozen faces crumpled in regret. “But, Mr. President! Think about the publicity this gala will bring—and after all, it is for your favorite charity---“

“---the ratings on Radio Capital will go through the roof—“

“—not to mention the newsreel footage—“

“---your popularity polls will surge, probably higher than they’ve been all year—not like you need the good press, but—“

“—you really want to give your image a shot in the arm, considering what you’re going to be announcing about the democracy initiative next month. You know there’s going to be one hell of a backlash. You want to be riding high in the public eye before you go tearing the whole world apart, and—“

“—and who wouldn’t want to be serenaded by Gladys Turlough? I know I would!”

Manicured fingers steepled under a face that was still boyishly attractive after five decades. Keen eyes, black as ink, lifted to meet Breda’s. They were absolutely implacable.

“Breda…chain up your dogs. I am not getting up on that stage. There will be no ladies jumping out of cakes, famous or otherwise. The only reason I even agreed to this farce was because you agreed it was a good strategic move prior to the announcement at Parliament in December about the government changeover. That—and that it will raise money for the scholarship grants for the institute.” He’d relied on the strategic genius of Heymans Breda for two decades now, in peace and war, but having to cope with the necessary evil of his personal press and publicity staff, Roy suspected, was as hard on his old friend as it was on Roy himself.

What the hell did all this fiftieth birthday gala nonsense have to do with running a nation anyway? Ed had played to the media for the first time when he was a State Alchemist, but that was primarily to draw the attention of the homunculi so he could take them on in a fight. More recently he’d learned how to play ball with the papers and radio and the newsreels to promote the budding airship and aeroplane industry that was taking the known world by storm. Ed—and most assuredly Alphonse—had become damned good at grabbing headlines when it suited them, and always for a cause, not simply to draw attention to their personal lives.

Roy preferred a more subtle approach to the public. Roy had taken care of his nation for over fifteen years now, forged new alliances and gone a long way to establish truce with quarrelsome border nations such as Creta. He’d done it The Mustang Way—above the boards and behind the scenes, deftly manipulating behind the scenes when open overtures failed to yield success. The very idea of a public spectacle with radio and cinema and vaudeville celebrities singing his praises and showing off in public….well, damn it, it just wasn’t The Mustang Way.

Roy had made a counter offer. The Hohenheim Institute and Academy, home to some of the best and brightest young minds in the known world, had its own fine arts school, sponsored, in no small part, by King Claudio Ricco of Aerugo. If there had to be some sort of public acknowledgement of Roy Mustang turning fifty, why not showcase the students? After all, they were the ones who would benefit…not to mention it would draw attention away from Roy, which was his real goal.

That suggestion had met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Breda, ring master to this circus of nitwits who worked tirelessly to keep the Fuhrer ‘popular’ and beloved in the public eye, just shook his head and sighed. “Look, Boss,” he rumpled his short red crew cut in frustration, “I know you don’t want to do this. I get it. I really do. I don’t like it either. I know you don’t like public displays and you’d rather we planned something, y’know, a little more cultured. More dignified—say, a symphony or something. But right now,” he held up his broad hand, level with Roy’s chilly gaze,” you’re on a good even keel. Right after November, you’re gonna announce the permanent dissolution of the Military State and the formation of a democracy. We know, sir. We’ve seen this coming since you took your oath of office. But it’s going to shake up the public and people are going to panic. You need all the good will you can get. I know you hate this—but it can help your image. The people love you—““

Roy glanced at his watch cynically. “Well, at the moment they do—“

“—right, so let’s keep up the momentum. We’ll tone it down.” He glanced nervously at his staff. “I’ll make ‘em tone it down. You won’t even have to come onstage. Just wave from the Presidential box. It’ll be okay. Okay?”

This was coming from the man who had so skillfully manipulated the press by commandeering Radio Capital and painting Roy as a patriotic loyalist (and Major General Armstrong as the sole architect of the coup in Central) on The Promised Day. He knew Roy and he knew what he was doing.

Roy hated to admit defeat, but he’d been outflanked by the finest goddamn chess player in the whole Amestrian military.

Breda was close enough to see a vein begin to throb prominently on Roy Mustang’s forehead. Time to get out before getting singed. He gathered up his notes and saluted. “That’s all I have to report at this time, Sir!”

“We’ll discuss this tomorrow. Dismissed!”

As soon as the door closed behind them Roy sank back into his chair and groaned. “Gladys Turlough….jumping out of my birthday cake.” He reached in his top desk drawer for an aspirin, wishing he had some whisky to wash it down with. “Ed will never let me live this down….”

###

“It’s not like we can get him anything he can’t get himself—well, except maybe some fresh breeding stock for the stables. I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

Jean Havoc scratched thoughtfully at his goatee and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. Winter seemed to be chasing autumn’s heels this year, he thought. Frost had come early and while it pinked Riza’s cheeks in a way he mightily admired he’d still prefer they were out of it and into something warmer, preferable a shared bathtub with plenty of soap to make things slippery and interesting.

“We don’t need to buy him a present. In fact he’d prefer it if we didn’t. You know how he is about birthdays.” Riza Hawkeye adjusted her scarf and peered into the shop windows they passed.

Mustang had always said that the best birthday present of all was a good bottle of scotch and good friends to help him drink it. In fact it had become a custom dating back to the old days in East City, everybody coming over to Roy’s quarters and eating Xingese takeout and drinking scotch, playing chess and poker and simply ‘at ease’ with their commanding officer. Now that he was the leader of the nation those casual evenings were fewer and further between but cherished nonetheless. Ed nearly always made it a point to be home for Roy’s birthday and sometimes they wanted private time to do unspeakable things to one another that damaged the upholstery of the much-abused red velvet chaise-longue in Private Dining Room 5 of Madame Christmas’ establishment.

Roy would be turning fifty this year—not that you could really tell it by his youthful appearance—and whatever they gave him had to be, well, something worthy of the event. Roy’s personal staff had spent several long evenings arguing over beer about what would be appropriate. They might have asked Madame Chris or Edward—but wasn’t this a gift from his team? In the end, Breda, Falman and Furey all turned to Colonel Hawkeye and Major Havoc and told them to take their cens and go get something, anything.

A watch? No. He still carried the silver pocket watch and his wrist sported a very handsome gold watch that Edward’s son Maes had constructed for his ‘second father’ when he was fifteen, before he started blowing things up in his tiny workshop on the Hohenheim campus.

Cufflinks? Nina Elric had crafted a set from gold and lapis bearing Roy’s alchemical array. Clever things, really—they opened and closed by clapping ones hands and gave off tiny sparks of blue light when activated

New brief case? Possibly. “We could always go down to that…place. Y’know? Spenser’s Emporium? Where they sell those rubber---“

“—absolutely not!” Hawkeye shuddered. The very idea!

“—I meant for a gift certificate,” Havoc clarified. “He and Ed might like---“

“—out of the question, Jean. Drop it.”

Havoc shoved his hands disconsolately into his pockets and sighed. “Screw it, then. Let’s get him a case of Stray Dog Extra Reserve. Not like it will go to waste. And not like we’ll get to drink it with him, what with all that gala crap they have planned.”

Hawkeye smiled a little. She had served Roy Mustang most of her life, and if she was sure of anything she was sure that the Fuhrer had his priorities straight. He would want his team with him, in private where he could roll up his shirt sleeves, slurp lao mian noodles with beef and peppers and eat steamed pork buns, pass the bottle ‘round and relish down time with the closest thing he had to a family. “We’ll see,” was all she said, but the look on her face said ‘he damned well better or else’.

“You getting’ hungry?” He sniffed deeply. “Buy you a pizza and a pitcher.”

A chorus of some romantic ballad was spilling out of the half opened door of an Aerugoan pasta joint. She glanced at her grinning lover and decided that she wouldn’t mind splitting a bottle of ‘A’go Red’ and something crusty and cheesy and paved with black olives and mushrooms. “All right. Let me just take one more look….” She glanced quickly at the lighted window behind them, eyes flicking back and forth in search of something gift-worthy. It was Barnes and Walden, one of Central’s largest book stores and a favorite haunt of the Elric brothers since they installed a coffee stand within its doors and didn’t care overmuch if their customers spent time reading in the cozy overstuffed chairs scattered here and there over the sales floor. She didn’t see any new alchemy or history titles, so she turned away, linked her arm through Jean’s and headed in the general direction of mandolin music and the enticing aroma of basil and tomato gravy…

Then she froze. “Hey, what’s with---“

Colonel Riza Hawkeye spun on her high heels and raced back to the window of Barnes and Walden, and for the first time in all the many hears he’d known her, Riza cursed.

“Son of a BITCH!”

He followed her pointing finger with his eyes. They locked onto an advertising poster bearing the beaming image of a sandy haired woman with a determined squarish jaw and the kind of tight smile that made friends count the silver after she’d been to supper and made men feel very protective of their testicles. His cigarette dropped out of his mouth. “Ohhhh….fuck!”

FIRE AND VICE: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY OF ROY MUSTANG

A BRAND NEW RELEASE FROM KELLEY WINCHELL

Best-Selling Author of “Muscle Men and Madwomen: The Armstrong Dynasty” and “Conduct Unbecoming: the Grumman Files”

Release Date: November 20th—Reserve Your Copy NOW!


	2. "POPPY, TINKER AND NITWIT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ed grapples with red tape (and unrequited lust) in East City on his way home, his children Maes and Nina have an ‘explosive’ reunion and Nina drops yet another bombshell on her dear old stepfather, the Fuhrer..one that will shake the people of Amestris—especially Colonel Hawkeye...

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 2: POPPY, TINKER AND NITWIT

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

“Badges? I don’t need a stinkin’ badge to get on that flight. I’m an ELRIC!”

The girl at the East City Aerodrome ticket kiosk didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry, sir. All alchemists requesting crew access to the Eastern Star must apply by mail 30 days before the scheduled flight. I will be glad to book you a government class ticket to Central if you’ll produce your identification card.”

“I told you. My bags are at the hotel. I caught a taxi straight from the station so I could make sure when the Star was departing for Central in the morning---“

“—and when you produce your identification I will be glad to punch a ticket for a government fare. However, without proper government identification I can only issue you a general fare ticket—“

“—look, I’ll have the damn ID when I check in. I’ve flown on this crate dozens of times—hell, my brother designed it! Now, will you cut me some goddamn slack and—“

“---for a cost of 5,000 cenz. This covers up to maximum weight of 90 kilograms gross, including passenger and accompanying hand luggage. There will be a corresponding overage charge for any freight or checked baggage. Now, if you’d please step up on the scale, sir, I’ll—“

“—take that scale and shove…ohhh, damn it. Forget it!” Ed snatched up his briefcase and stalked angrily away, cursing under his breath.

East City’s weather in November may have been warmer than Central but the rain seeped just as quickly into Edward’s shoes as he squelched through the puddles, his hair plastered to his cheeks and his glasses half fogged from the chill. It had been a long, long journey from the eastern kingdoms and the trans-desert railway took far too long. An airship would have been faster, but faster still would have been the flaming arrows launched by the Nihon Empire, still not altogether pleased with contact from the west, especially since Amestris was closely allied with Xing and Emperor Ling.

Nihon. Koryō. Siem. Tonkin. Anam. The Five Jewels, Ling called them, and at one point or another in their long bloody history Xing had been at war with all of them. Now, even as Roy labored to secure a lasting peace with Creta, Drachma, Ishbal and Aerugo, Xing was painstakingly working to reach non-aggression status with the Jewels. Xing was regarded…no, in truth, Xing had been an oppressor. It had been the mother of these small kingdoms. Their languages were similar and the Five Jewels still used the Xingese pinyin script. There were similarities in dress and cuisine and art---but in the last few centuries the aggression of the mother country had led to a certain ill feeling between the borders. For fifteen years Ling had made progress, often using Al as his ambassador, and when Nihon grudgingly invited a delegation of scientists to a summit at its Imperial Palace in the capital city of Aramashi-kyō Roy sent Edward as official envoy from Amestris.

And it was there in a dojo in Aramashi-kyō that Edward Elric had the living shit beaten out of him by a nine year old boy. Little shaven-headed tyke, ‘knee high to a hiccup’, as Havoc would say, bowed politely to the strange golden-haired foreigner and proceeded to throw him across the room as if he were one of Nina’s old rag dolls. Thinking his timing had simply been a little off, Ed faced his opponent again and got bounced again. And again. And again. The little boy hadn’t even broken a sweat, his eyes like twin pools of calm, dark water.

Later the dojocho—the students called him a sensei—offered him bitter tea and rice and sour plums and pleasantly explained to Edward that his defeat had nothing to do with his skills and everything with his mind. “Your anger defeats you, Elric-sama. The moment you face an opponent with the heated blood of anger you are already beaten.”

“Who says I was angry?” Ed growled at the master.

“My student could read your body language,” the old man replied calmly. “” You are restless and driven, Likely to attack full on. There is much, perhaps too much, of the metal element in your nature. “

Ed shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it, Sir….”

That night as he soaked in a steaming bath, cool towel folded on his head, Ed looked up at the moon and said aloud, “damn it, Roy….you should be here. You should have seen that kid beat the snot out of me. You’d have died laughing.”

He should have been at Ed’s side watching the incredible fireworks in Koryō. Should have seen the impossibly delicate Siemese court dancers, towering spires of beaten gold adorning their heads and golden claws on their fingers long enough to make Lust envious. Should have been there when etiquette required that Ed eat that bowl of live, wriggling baby prawns and when the fresh octopus tentacles marinated in some fiery liquor crawled right up his chopstick and wrapped around his knuckles.

He should have smelled the delights of the spice market, watched the cool autumn moon rise over spindly pines with Ed in his arms while listening to the soft whisper of a bamboo flute. He should have seen the floating villages in Anam and Ed most certainly would have dared him to eat one of those fried spiders the old woman in Tonkin was hawking in the market, laughing at him when he was too intimidated to try a bite.

And the ocean. Alphonse had been right. There was nothing like it. Being unable to swim Ed didn’t dare venture into its bitter waters but it was cool and smelled good and Ed wanted Roy to see it, would have stepped into its waters with him.

Fifteen years. He’d been spending half a year traveling. half a year at home with Roy, teaching at the Institute. Every season when he packed his bag he’d say, “When are you going to step down and go out on the road with me? The Parliament is pretty much running the show, y’know. And I know there’s so much you want to see before you die.” And Roy would tell him, “Eventually, Ed. When I know the country’s stable and in good hands. I made a promise and I won’t break it. But,” he’d murmur into Edward’s hair as he pulled his lover close, “I made a promise to you, too. We’ll go. One of these days. I promise.”

 

Now he was hanging his sodden clothes in the bath room of an East City hotel and even though his belly was rumbling with hunger he called home first.

 

“Hey, you!”

“Where are you?”

“I was late getting out of Resembool. Sara’s birthday party, so I had to stay over last night. Can’t believe she’s fourteen. Already apprenticed herself to the local vet and she’s studying up to work the lambing early this spring.”

“How is Pinako?”

“She’s….still with us. Sleeps a lot, although with five great grandkids storming all over the place I don’t know how the hell she does it. Pitt keeps her comfortable and Winry promised to let us know if---when….you know.”

“You taking the Star in the morning?”

Ed frowned. “Yeah. The ticket agent was being a real pain in the ass, but I’ll get there around five—with my goddamn credentials—and we should be there early afternoon.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Ed glanced at the window. The rain had finally stopped. “Oh, go get some supper,…hit a few bookstores—“

“---maybe call back around eleven for some recreational conversation?” Roy purred.

There was a moment of silence. “Oh hell yes.” His groin concurred, and his trousers became uncomfortably tight at the thoughts of the delights the night would hold, even if they were still hundreds of miles apart.

“Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I understand the 5:59 from Dublith has arrived. I’ve sent Colonel Hawkeye to the station to meet our daughter.”

“Maes is too good to go meet his sister?” Ed demanded.

“The boy genius is currently locked in his research lab with the perennial ‘Do Not Disturb Or It Will Be Your Ass’ sign taped to the door.”

“You’ve alerted the medics?”

“On call, as we speak. Hopefully he’ll be out of traction by the time you get home.”

Ed gritted his teeth. That boy…”If I come home and find out he’s blown anything up,” he threatened, “I’ll put him in traction myself….”

###

“Fuhrer Mustang!” The newest secretary rounded the corner and burst into Roy’s office as soon as the blast concussion rumbled away, leaving a smoking hole where a tiny chemistry lab used to be on the Hohenheim Institute campus. “Sir! There’s been an accident…I’m so sorry sir, but your son….I think your son has been killed!”

“Again?”

Field binoculars in hand, Roy took a quick glance outside his office window. Several yards outside the blast impact he could see a blond figure in a smoking lab coat. It stirred. For a moment, Roy closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.

He turned briskly to the woman who was panting and trembling at having brought such horrible news to the leader of her country. “Alert the infirmary. If he doesn’t report on his own feet in twenty minutes have him checked out.”

“SIR???”

Sheska patted her shoulder. “You must be new around here….”

###

A high-buttoned shoe poked at the body in the smoking rubble. The young man didn’t stir.

“He’s dead all right.” The voice was calm, cultured and now craftily conspiratorial. “Excellent. Aunt Riza, you grab his wallet while I get his car keys—“

A sooty hand shot up, grabbed a trim ankle and yanked—and Professor Nina Elric landed hard on her oh so elegant bottom. She swatted her brother with her umbrella. “You shit.”

“Ah-ah-ah! Temper, temper, Nitwit! A lady of quality never besmirches her lips with foul language—“

“---I’ll besmirch your lips with my fist! Where the he—where the blazes were you? You were supposed to meet me at the station!” She righted herself and adjusted her hat. “You were going to buy me ice cream. Elycia’s expecting us down at Il Gattina.”

Her brother groaned a little as she yanked him into a sitting position. He felt for cracked ribs and was relieved that the only thing seriously injured was his pride. “Sorry, Nitwit! Got some fuel equations from Pyotir and---“

“—immediately started mucking around in your lair and blew the fu—fudge out of all that new equipment and set your hair on fire.”

“My hair?? SHIT!” Maes Urey Elric slapped a frantic hand to the back of his neck. His heavy blond braid was singed but still intact save for a few inches at the end. “Don’t scare me like that! Can’t be a proper Elric male without a ponytail.”

“Or a score of bandages and scars and, if you keep going at this rate, a few replacement automail limbs. Mom will brain you if you blow any of your bits off.”

“Nahhh…but she’ll charge me double and send the bill to Dad for being a bad influence—so let’s not set our folks at each other’s throats and forget it.”

Nina reached up and gently straightened her brother’s lab goggles. “Tinker, you’re looking well—under all the scorch marks and the dirt, that is.”

Her brother wasn’t buying it. “If you’re about to wheedle me into borrowing my car, you can forget it. You going up to see Uncle Roy, hoof it or take a cab.”

She gave him her most beguiling smile. “Now, Tinker—“

“Now, nothing—keep your filthy alchemist’s gloves off my baby! It’s the only gasoline powered Elricmobile on the roads in the world---“

“—which certainly explains the rising death toll I’ve seen in the papers---“

“—it’s going to be a standard, just you wait! Besides, I gotta clean up.” He dug in his pocket and handed the surprised Colonel several bills. “Do me a favor and call a cab so Miss Snooty McElegant doesn’t get her over priced skirts muddy or scuff her boots. Why the hell you can’t wear a decent miniskirt like Mom did at your age---or is that too 19th century?“

“Gilded Age Revival is the latest fashion and you know it—“

“—and you’ve got enough steel in that stupid corset to bounce bullets off your boobs—if you had any, that is.”

The umbrella whacked him again, a little harder this time. Nina stood up on her tiptoes, kissed her brother on the ear, whispered “go fuck yourself!” and stomped off to find a cab, Hawkeye scurrying after her.

“Wait—you’re going the wrong way!” The cab had made a u-turn and was heading back towards town.

“No we’re not. There’s something I want to show you, Nina. Something Major Havoc and I saw last night at the bookstore. Something that is going to upset your father very much.”

“Which one?” Nina’s eyes danced with mischief. “ I have four of them, you know.” Although Edward was her biological parent, Nina and Maes considered Roy, Sig Curtis and Pitt Renback as fathers, too. To avoid confusion, she referred to her stepfather as Uncle Pitt, Sig as Poppa, Edward as Dad or Daddy, and for some peculiar reason affectionately addressed the Fuhrer as Poppy. The one term she never used was ‘father’. She knew her family’s history in full, gruesome detail and knew Ed would find it very disturbing to be called by that moniker.

There was a long, thoughtful silence as the seventeen year old studied the flyer for the offensive tell-all in the bookstore window. “Right,” Nina said decisively. “I suppose I’ll have to kill her.”

Cognac eyes darted towards the young prodigy. Anyone else might have been joking, but this was an Elric talking. An exceptionally brilliant and articulate Elric, but a young and hot tempered one in spite of all her elegant manners and outward maturity. She had the bearing of a young academic and a woman of fashion, but beneath it all she was keeping herself on a very tight leash, and instinctively wanted to shove her silk umbrella up Kelley Winchell’s rectum point first—and then open it. “I hope you’re joking.”

Chestnut brows knit together. “Well, unless I want to add ‘criminal genius’ to my list of professional accolades, I’ve got to think of something. You’ll notice when it’s coming out.”

“The Fuhrer’s birthday. Same night as the gala.”

“Tell me that’s a coincidence.” Her fingers tugged unconsciously at the cuffs of her fine kid gloves, artfully embroidered with her own alchemic array. “You’ve told Poppy?”

Hawkeye shook her head. “Havoc and I have been trying to find out more about this. I remember when her book on Fuhrer Grumman came out. “

“Shortly before he left office. Allegations of sexual misconduct and fraternization with young female officers---which Auntie Rebecca says was spot-on factual. What kind of dirt do you think she has on Poppy—I mean, that hasn’t already come to the surface? Surely not that dreary rubbish about Uncle Maes. If Aunt Gracy’s not upset, why the fu—devil—should anyone else give a da—curse—about it?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” Hawkeye answered grimly.

A gloved finger lifted to correct her. “That’s what WE intend to find out….”

###

“Take it down.”

“Sir?”

Edward adjusted his glasses and fixed the clerk with a cold topaz glare. “I said take it down.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of the poster behind the cash register at Bounder’s Books and News. “It’s offensive.”

The manager took a step forward, gently pushing his checkout clerk out of the way. “It’s freedom of the press. One of the rights confirmed by Parliament shortly after Fuhrer Mustang was inducted into office. Freedom of the press and freedom of speech. Very essential amendments to the National Constitution of 1920—agreed, Mr, Elric?”

He was right, damn it. Take away the right to free speech and free press and you had—

\--you had a Military Dictatorship. You had the Bradley Regime.

And Roy Mustang would be the last dictator of Amestris, if Roy really meant to follow through with his plans.

“I’ll pay you back when this country becomes a democracy!”

Ed dug in his pocket. “Tell you what. I’ll buy it off you for…520 cenz. How ‘bout it?”

“We’ll bring another one from the back.”

“I figured you would.”

“Still want to buy it?”

 

Twenty minutes later he was back at the hotel, shoveling sweet and sour chicken and fried egg rolls in his mouth as he thumbed through a copy of “Conduct Unbecoming: the Grumman Files”. It nearly made him gag. Not that Ed was any great judge of literature, but if the woman’s insinuating prose was any oilier he could have lubricated an engine with it. “This isn’t a book, it’s a demolition job.” Not to say that some of it…well…a lot of it might have been true, but still….Ed seriously doubted the old goat had gone as far as he was accused in the tome.

Worse than the sexual innuendo was the outright accusations that Grumman was complicit in the escape of the infamous Old Guard, the disjointed band of Bradley insiders who had made life hell for Roy and nearly assassinated him on at least three occasions. One of them had actually shot Roy, wounding him in the shoulder before Hawkeye blew the man’s head to bits. Of course she had then gotten all traumatized over Roy being hurt and broke down and offered to resign and Roy had yelled at her so hard and so long that Dr. Knox had threatened to sedate him.

“Grumman let the Old Guard out free? Bullshit,” Ed mumbled around a mouthful of rice. “I can’t believe anybody with half a brain would actually buy this shit.”

But buy it they did and read it they did---and the scandal that followed led to a Parliamentary Investigation, a military investigation---and an early retirement for General Grumman.

But it wasn’t like there was much the people didn’t know about Roy, was there? “Old man Edison leaked a lot to that worm-fucker Charles Foster of the Central Times—just before blowing half his head off.” Roy had screwed with Maes Hughes. Roy was rumored to have had a breakdown after the war and used opiates and alcohol to kill the pain---yeah, there was a measure of truth, but nothing he had taken had been without medical supervision and he’d conquered his personal demons after his return to Ishbal.

“What the hell else IS there, that some bleach blonde busybody could use against Roy and make stick?”

He glared at the tattered remains of the poster which he had childishly ripped up and tossed in the waste basket. “Who are you, lady?”

###

“Where’s my Wroy?”

Roy glanced up from his paperwork. He smiled. “Right here where you left him,” he answered gently, his face relaxing into an unguarded smile.

She rushed through the door, dignity forgotten, arms outstretched. He met her half way, folding her tightly against his chest as he had when she was tiny enough to curl up in his arms and listen to him read her bedtime stories. “Poppy…I missed you so much!”

Roy pressed his cheek against her tumbled hair, hiding the emotion on his face. “It was rather dull with you gone so long in Aerugo. I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back. You seemed so fond of life at court and studying abroad.”

“It’s not home,” Nina murmured against his shoulder. “It’s not you and Daddy and Maes and everybody.” There was a slight quaver in her voice and Roy drew back a little to study her face.

She was grown now, at least by Amestrian standards. How odd it seemed to him. For fifteen years they were still children, then miraculously a child turns sixteen and becomes a legal adult. At least, they THINK they’re grown, he reminded himself. His little girl had learned the hard way what it was like to have a prodigy’s mind in a child’s body. A faded scar on her forehead, covered by her hair, still made him angry, recalling the children in the school in Dublith who threw rocks at her in the school yard, calling this precious child a freak because of her exceptional intelligence. She was laughed at, shoved, tormented and spat on. The rock that caught her in the forehead was the final straw. Maes had gone into a blind fury, punching and kicking every kid in sight and screaming “don’t you touch my sister!”. It took two teachers to hold Maes back and five to hold Izumi back when she saw her grandchild’s bloody forehead. The wound was superficial—the damage went deeper than anyone ever knew.

Ed had been in Creta, and Winry was giving birth to Pitt’s second child. Roy took matters into his own hands. With Izumi and Sig’s blessing he brought Maes and Nina to Central. A private tutor was found, an alchemist named Judah who had once worked for a great family who had perished in a fire at their estate. Judah was blind, his face dreadfully disfigured, but he was gentle with the children, delighted to feed such eager little minds. He had met Edward and Alphonse in their younger days and in spite of the weight of his years he was glad to take the position. Ed, Izumi and Winry all agreed that, for the time being, Judah would be a fine tutor—however it was not the answer. “I don’t want the children isolated,” Winry admitted. “Isn’t there a school somewhere for kids like ours?”

There hadn’t been. Within a year there was. The Hohenheim Academy welcomed the academically and artistically gifted as part of the Institute and the Collegium of Alexandria, with children from five countries on the waiting list. Judah spent his last years as headmaster and was buried on the grounds, greatly loved and well remembered. The fact that he was sightless and scarred was a reminder to the students that outward appearances or physical ability were nothing to judge a person by. At the Academy, Nina and Maes and hundreds of children like them were nurtured and guided and mentored by the Institute’s students, By the time the Elric children had graduated—Nina two years before her older brother—most of the old terrors were gone, although Nina acquired the habit of dressing and behaving older than her years. Now seventeen, she might have been dressed as elegantly as a woman in her twenties but the sight of her beloved ‘Poppy’ her affectations were forgotten and she clung to him like a child, lonely and so very very glad to be home.

“When are you making the announcement about the democracy initiative?”

Roy stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “The evening of that damnable gala they insist on throwing in my honor.” He glanced at the clock. Maes was out of the infirmary, and Gracia and Elycia would be coming for supper in an hour. “It’s time for a half-century of military dictatorship—however well meant—to come to an end. That’s what I promised your father and Hughes. It’s what I’ve worked for all my adult life.”

“So what will you do when you retire, then?”

Roy blinked in surprise. “Retire?”

“You’re the last appointed Fuhrer of Amestris. If the government is going to be civilian with elected officials, you’d have to step down, right? You can’t go on running the country as the Fuhrer or everything you’re telling the people will mean nothing…or hadn’t that occurred to you?” She nibbled a ginger biscuit. “And Aunt Riza will have to find something else to do. After all, once you’re retired, you and Daddy won’t need her following you around for the rest of your lives, right?”

His Excellency, Fuhrer President Roy Mustang stared at his lover’s child. For one of the few times in his life he was absolutely speechless.

…..TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. THE NEEDLE AND THE DAMAGE DONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward, aware of the consequences of his self-healing transmutation in Briggs years ago, comes to a conclusion about how he wants to spend the remaining days of his life. Hawkeye flashes back on her father’s madness and how it drove her to build her life around Roy Mustang. Meanwhile, an opportunistic biographer has no qualms about publishing a tell all biography that could lead Roy straight to the gallows for treason…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 3: THE NEEDLE AND THE DAMAGE DONE   
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

At the check-in at the East City Aerodrome, Ed stepped on the scale, suitcase in hand. The bulk of his gear would arrive in two days by rail, but his travel kit and a large parcel containing family gifts were going with him aboard the Eastern Star. He’d already left a hefty travel trunk of loot at Granny’s house. Part of his effort to heal so much of the hurt and anger between himself and the girl who had been virtually a sister to him was to treat Winry’s second family as extensions of his own. He was genuinely fond of Winry and Pitt’s brood, and in turn he was the much loved Uncle Ed who never forgot a birthday, let them eat ice cream for breakfast when they visited, and never went on a research trip without sending them generous mementoes of his travels.   
The parcel he was carrying with him contained gifts for his own family, including a very precious antique that he was bringing back especially for Roy. Technically the legality of owning it might have been a little dodgy, but it had been gifted to Edward and from the moment Edward had admired it he knew that Roy would cherish it.  
A voice yanked him out of his reverie. “You’re fatter than you look.” A polished nail tapped on the scale’s display. “I’m going to have to charge you an overage fee.”  
“FAT??” Ed’s head jerked around to face the check in clerk. He lifted his hand luggage and pointed at it. ”I’ve got this, y’know?”  
She weighed the bag. She weighed Ed, minus his overcoat. “You still weigh more than you look to weigh. “ She pulled out a small, well thumbed pamphlet and turned to the paper clip chart that read ‘Average Height/Weight’. “According to our guide, the upward limit of weight for a man who is---how tall?”  
Ed pulled himself up proudly. He’d finally stopped is growth spurt around the age of 24. Consequently, the stubborn twig of hair that he once coaxed to bob ridiculously above his forehead wasn’t quite so…erect…these days, nor the soles of his shoes quite so thick. “One hundred eighty-five point five centimeters,” he told her as proudly as a man among his fellows might brag of his endowments below the waist.   
“Hmmm…the chart says your weight should range up to 87 kilos for your height. I’m showing you’re over the line by quite a few kilos. Odd. You don’t look overweight…”

“Fuckin’ outrageous! First thing I’m gonna do when I get home,” Ed growled to the pilot, “is petition the Amestrian Airship and Aeronatics Regulatory Board for special weight allowances for automailers”.   
“There isn’t one,” one of the alchemists on the crew pointed out.  
“Ha!” Ed’s grin was toothy and malicious. “There will be when I’m done!”  
The pilot chuckled in sympathy and nodded towards the jump seat where Ed could strap himself down for lift-off. He had personally apologized to Edward, signed Ed off on the flight crew list and informed the gate agent in future they would have a list of approved VIP passengers that were to be admitted aloft, badge or no badge. “And Professor Elric and Professor Alphonse will always be at the top of the list. We wouldn’t be in the air today without them! Charge them fare? Why, we pay them licensing fees!”  
They even threw in a box lunch, a small pillow and a blanket to use along with the apology and, since it was early, a cup of coffee and a share of the crew’s fresh donuts for breakfast. Travel was much nicer now that vacuum flasks were around to keep the coffee nice and hot. “Bearing bad weather we should be there by one-ish, thereabouts,” Ed was told. “Have to stop for a cargo drop about half-way and take on some passengers.”  
“No problem,” Ed shrugged. “Beats the hell out of a train ride.” The coffee, thankfully, was not made by the Military, and after he dusted the sugary donut crumbs from his coat he pulled the blanket around, leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes….

“This’ll probably shorten my life…but it’s the only way…”  
He clapped his hands and laid them on his own flesh as the rusty metal bar that impaled him was swiftly yanked from his body. I am a Philosopher’s stone of one soul….  
It had worked. At least, it had worked long enough to keep him from bleeding to death. And when he was cognizant enough of his surroundings after the horrible repair surgery in the back alley clinic the chimeras took him to, he pulled himself out of his pajamas to pee into the tin urinal the provided by his bed….  
….and noticed hair. Yellow as the stuff on his head. Not much but more than the sparse bit that had been there before. There was fuzz on his cheeks too, so pale you couldn’t really see it without a magnified mirror—which also revealed a face that had lost the last of its boyishness.  
A young man was staring back at him. A taller young man whose voice was a fraction deeper, whose jaw was a bit squarer, whose muscles were more defined, and whose dick was…  
Ah. Yes. About that. “Grow, damn you!” he’d order his member. It listened—a little—but compared to what Al was slinging around after he’d gotten his body back Ed was pissed off. It wasn’t tiny…but it was clear that he wasn’t taking after his father, at least not in this respect.  
But he had performed the transmutation, had survived and appeared to have passed rapidly through puberty. “This’ll probably shorten my life.” The real question was this: How much time do I have left?  
“You could live to be a hundred,” Izumi told him honestly. “You could die tomorrow. Does it matter, Ed? Focus on the here and now.”  
He’d lived long enough to see his children reach adulthood at sixteen. He’d lived long enough to be hailed as a living legend—a heroic alchemist, brilliant inventor, aeronaut, lecturer—with Sheska’s help he had a half-dozen scholarly works in libraries throughout the known world. He’d lived long enough to achieve a hard-won peace with Winry. He’d made peace with his own past mistakes. He had a stable, loving relationship with a good man. And there was no knowing how much time he had left. There was much he wanted to do—so much yet undone.   
“Life’s uncertain, Dad,” Maes had told him over a spoonful of mocha almond fudge ripple ice cream with hot caramel sauce, which he could eat by the hour and never gain an apparent ounce. “ You could kick off at the table at dinner before Sebastian serves the coffee and he’d have to fish your glasses out of the soup. You’d be all corpsified and gross and everybody would lose their appetites. It could happen. So screw it. Life’s a crapshoot, Dad, so you might as well eat dessert first, okay?”  
Without looking down at his hand, he began to turn and turn the golden ring on his right middle finger, the one with the inexpertly etched salamander array on it that a sixteen year old alchemy apprentice had carved under the watchful eye of the original flame alchemist. He thought about that boy, now grown to splendid manhood and more attractive as the years went by.   
He came to a conclusion, one he had tumbled over and over in his mind for the past decade and a half. “All right, damn it,” he said aloud. “Time to make an honest man out of that arrogant, morally depraved, snide son of a bitch.” He grinned. “Ought to make the fucker wear a goddamned white dress…”  
###  
Roy Mustang, for one of the few times in his life, was absolutely dumbstruck.   
“…you and Daddy won’t need her following you around for the rest of your lives, right?”  
He had no intention of retiring from public service. Ever. He had every intention of dying in harness, an old warhorse who served his motherland to his last breath. Oh, of course, if he became infirm or senile he would have to retire, but there was no other reason that could force Roy Mustang to step down from his life-long watch over Amestris. Even if he wasn’t at the helm, ruling from the top, he would find other ways to serve. He’d put on that uniform at sixteen. He intended, if at all possible, to be buried in it.  
With the uniform came responsibility, and one of those responsibilities was the dignified Colonel in her forties who had watched his back since his days at Eastern Command. She had stuck to his side like burr to a dog’s tail. She was his shadow and his conscience. She had shaped her entire existence around him, filled her world with him to the exclusion of virtually all else, including the long suffering Havoc who still held out some small hope of settling down with her and raising a family even after all these years.  
“I don’t know how you’re going to handle that mess, Poppy,” his daughter told him seriously. “I mean, I love Auntie Riza, but I think some part of her still believes that you and Daddy are just some…I don’t know…some guy thing. Something you’re going to get over, like when Uncle Maes married Aunt Gracia and—“  
“I’d like to know where the hell you came up with such a ridiculous idea,” Roy snapped.  
His daughter cast him a knowing smile over the rims of her glasses. “Woman’s intuition, Poppy. Women just sense these things—however unscientific that may sound.”  
Roy gave her a cool, appraising look. “I can still remember when you were peeing on me and smearing peas in your hair. It wasn’t that long ago, so you can cut the ‘women’s intuition’ crap right now.”  
“I’m right, aren’t I?”  
“Negative.” A sudden uneasiness in his gut told him otherwise. “This topic doesn’t merit further discussion.” Rising swiftly he adjusted his high collar and smoothed his glossy hair back from his forehead, revealing the few faint threads of silver at his temples. I’ll see you at supper.” He gestured towards her elegantly corseted form, cramped and laced and brocaded with an inch of Nina’s life. “Try to wear something a little less…armor-plated.”  
He nearly knocked Hawkeye down as he hurried from the room. She had been right outside the door, no doubt overhearing every word. Nina caught a quick glimpse of Hawkeye’s drained, stricken expression just before the door closed at Roy’s heels.  
###  
When Nina began her alchemy training Hawkeye had told her all about Master Berthold and the tattoo’ed array she still carried on her back. “I asked the Fuhrer—he was just a major back then—to burn it off my skin…to free me from the burden of carrying such dangerous knowledge.”  
“ Can I see it?”  
With great reluctance, Riza Hawkeye excused herself and returned, modestly draped, her pale skin exposed only enough for the girl to examine the burn scars and the blackwork that still covered much of her body from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. “Guess it would have killed you to burn it all,” Nina whistled, shaking her head. “Looks like Poppy got the key parts of the diagram. It’s not useable. Thanks for letting me see it.”  
Later, Nina suddenly put down her teacup and stared intensely at her older friend. “You could have said no.”  
Hawkeye blinked. “What?”  
“That,” Nina gestured towards Hawkeye’s back, “is wrong. I know many alchemists get themselves tattooed—but you’re not an alchemist. You let your father do that to you?” Hawkeye lowered her head and nodded. “That’s….all those needles…the size of that array…how could he do that to you? My daddy would kill anybody who tried to hurt me like that—if Poppy didn’t kill them first. Or I would have run away, I don’t know.” Her brows knit together and she shook her dark head. “Why did you let him do it?”

 

She was naked, prone upon an improvised work bench, at an age when no young girl is eager to show her body to anyone. It was not for any medical reason. It was not for the eyes of a lover, even if she had thought of such a thing. She was there because her father told her to do it and in the House of Hawkeye Master Berthold’s word was Law.  
A tiny metal comb, needle sharp, soldered to a lengthy rod. A stick of bamboo, curved, its tip split into tiny razor-sharp points. A metal rod, engraved with alchemic glyphs and formulae, even as the table she was laid upon, her hair shorn off high to expose her vulnerable neck and only a modesty drape covering her from the small of her back downwards. There was a coarse towel beneath her and another rolled under her forehead. One absorbed her sweat and her blood and droplets of ink. The other absorbed her tears.  
Master Berthold sponged her back with alcohol. “No use getting infected and ruining my life’s greatest achievement,” he said to himself. He had already traced the grand array in ink on her skin and now he would make it truly indelible.   
Using sure, quick strokes he laid the needle-comb against her flesh, its points freshly dipped in ink. The metal rod was tapped against the handle that held the piercing device, driving the points in and in and in. It burned and stung and he could not see her screw up her eyes to keep the tears back as he switched back from the straight comb to the curved bamboo and to the agonizing pen of clustered points that allowed him to inscribe the formulae that he recited aloud as he worked:  
“This is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth:-  
As below, so above; and as above so below. With this knowledge alone you may work miracles.”  
Tap…taptapTAPta-taptap…tap. “Don’t move,” her father warned her. She was feeling sick, lightheaded.  
“And since all things exist in and emanate from the ONE Who is the ultimate Cause, so all things are born after their kind from this ONE. The Sun is the father, the Moon the mother; the wind carried it in his belly. Earth is its nurse and its guardian.  
It is the Father of all things, the eternal Will is contained in it.”  
”I think I’m going to be sick, Father,” she moaned softly. “Please, may I---“  
The master laid a cautioning hand on her shoulder. “I need you to stay still.” The needle moved again.   
“Here, on earth, its strength, its power remain one and undivided.  
Earth must be separated—“ he blotted up the beads of bright blood that oozed down her side, along the curve of a breast that was still budding. He would have preferred to wait until she was grown, but the searing pains in his chest warned him that he was running out of time.  
Tap..taptaptaptap…tapTAPtap. He reached for the stylus again.   
“,,,separated from fire, the subtle from the dense, gently with unremitting care.  
It arises from the earth and descends from heaven; it gathers to itself the strength of things above and things below.  
By means of this one thing all the glory of the world shall be yours and all obscurity flee from you—“  
“Father…please…”  
“I need you to be still,” he commanded. “Don’t make me tell you again.”  
“I’m about to be sick…I have to—“  
He twitched aside the covering towel and the one beneath her sweaty face. There was a slit in the table. He shoved a pail under it with his foot. “Here, then. Do it and be done. There’s no time to waste!”  
She heaved and choked, her body clenching pitifully. She began to sob.   
He firmly pushed her back down. “Enough, now.’ He cleared his throat, bent to her skin and the burning began anew.  
“--It is power, strong with the strength of all power, for it will penetrate all mysteries and dispel all ignorance. By it the world was created.   
From it are born manifold wonders, the means to achieving which are here given.”

It took seven days under a waxing moon.  
When it was done she could no longer rise unassisted from the table. “Well done,” he told her. “Now my life’s work will be preserved for the ages.” He had hired a woman from town to coat her back with salve and bandage it lightly. Only the clink of coins in her pocket could persuade her to stay at her task. Only her fear of this madman kept her silent. “Goodness, if he would do such a dreadful thing to his own child, who knows what else he is capable of!”  
By the time the seven days of torment were done, the young woman who first laid down upon the towel covered table was not the same one who lay mutely on her own bed, face down on the cool sheets, her back stinging and scabbing up, eventually healing cleanly.   
If she couldn’t trust her father, she resolved, she would find someone in the world she could trust.   
In the end, it was a boy soldier, not much older than she was, with a pale baby face and naive dreams of making the world a better place. He was soft-spoken, gentle with her in her grief and buried her father with genuine concern and affection. His heart, it seemed, was great enough to forgive even a monster like the man who had used his own child’s flesh as the canvas for his own ambition.

“Will you follow me?”  
“I will follow you into hell, Sir.”

And so she had, for a quarter of a century. She gave him her loyalty, obedience and duty as a soldier. He rewarded her with a Colonel’s commission.   
She gave him her days and, in the privacy of her own heart she spent her nights dreaming of him, yearning for him, aching for him. He rewarded her by taking another man into his bed. And now, it seemed, he was planning on just throwing her away. She’d known…she’d hoped…one day Roy Mustang would….  
But he didn’t. And now, she realized, he wouldn’t. And once again she was sick at her stomach and the scars beneath her back seemed to burn once again as if they had never really healed…

###  
It wasn’t about politics-at least, not in the past. Kelley Winchell had no axe to grind, not personally.  
There was generally no vendetta, any more than there had been with Grumman or the Armstrongs or anyone else she’d written about. She was a reporter and she had uncovered a story and it would probably be a best seller. That was about the extent of it.  
This book was different.   
Fifteen years ago a former newsman named Frank Archer did time in jail as an accessory to espionage. He’d gotten out and brought his old grudges with him. There was dirty laundry and he didn’t mind airing it at Roy Mustang’s expense.   
Fifteen years ago an Old Guard terrorist named Edison had been tried and sentenced to death for the murder of a bakery owner and a free lance reporter named Charles Foster---and conspiring to assassinate Fuhrer Mustang. Edison was gone—his private journals were not. While working on the Armstrong expose she’d met a man who’d met a man who said he knew a man who had the journals. She’d risked the entire book advance payment to procure those notebooks and years to find someone who could translate the encryptions. She might have brought it all to light sooner but when she’d heard that Mustang would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday in office and that there would be plenty of press coverage—well, why not?  
Before, it was all about money, pure and simple. She wasn’t in anyone’s back pocket, like the late Charles Foster had been. She’d become the doyenne of tell-all biographers because it paid well. If she’d been interested in accuracy she’d have gone to work for the Times. Her books sold and sold well and gave the punter on the street a sense that he knew the inside story on the most famous men and women of the day. Not to mention knocking the mighty off the catbird seat—as she had done with former Fuhrer Grumman—was exhilarating.  
This book was different. This one was going to be the one to push her over the top. The single most popular seated Fuhrer in modern history was a man who was, as he presented himself, an open book. Nearly everybody knew he was raised by a notorious madame. They knew that during the Ishballan Rebellion he had used alchemy to destroy entire cities—that women and children were melted into puddles of fat and charred bone at his hands. He didn’t apologize for the former and had shown open contrition for the latter.  
What he didn’t talk about was The Promised Day and what he knew about it.   
And, thanks to Edison’s journals, she had the truth of it—of the Bradley assassination conspiracy, the Doll Army, the experiments of Lab 5, the chimeras and the Philosopher’s Stones. Roy Mustang had been the single most powerful alchemist ever sanctioned by the State as a living weapon. Who’d have imagined that beneath that suave, elegant façade was concealed the twisted soul that orchestrated the near-annihilation of the Amestrian race?  
This book would break ground and change the world. And when the truth finally came out, they would hang him. Not that she especially wanted to see him killed, but it was history and he had dirtied his hands and everyone was blinded by his charm and good looks and worthy deeds. They had all conveniently forgotten the day of the eclipse when every man, woman, child—every living thing in the country—died….for the sake of Mustang’s lust for immortality.  
On November 20th the truth would come out, and Roy Mustang’s fiftieth birthday, if there was any justice in this world, would probably be his last…

…..TO BE CONTINUED…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author’s Note: the text Master Hawkeye is quoting is from “The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus. Or Hermes The Thrice Great” , taken from the Kitab Sirr al-Asar, a book of advice to kings written around 650 c.e. and believed to be one of the earliest alchemic texts)


	4. A MODEST PROPOSAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of a crucial vote that will change the future—and Roy’s career—If passed, Edward returns home and pops the question…but not everybody is celebrating the happy occasion.

Sheska didn’t drink as a rule, especially during the lunchtime planning meetings for the gala. Chef Ramsay always sent up a cooler with iced long necks whenever there was a power lunch, since most of Havoc’s power lunches were fueled by cold brew, grease, salt and carbohydrates as much as brain power. Sheska didn’t want to drink in meetings because it made her feel wicked. It made her want to say things that, well, nice girls weren’t supposed to say and played hell with her better judgment. Which, of course, was why Havoc requested the beer in the first place. If they could get Sheska even slightly boiled they could talk her into agreeing to damn near anything.  
“Nice girls don’t drink at staff meetings. Only,” she sighed as she reluctantly accepted another cold one from Kane Fuery, “I’m not a girl anymore, am I? I’m an old maid!” Her eyes began to tear up again. “I’m an old maid who’s about to turn forty…and…and…what’s the biggest worry in my life?? Not a husband. Not kids. I’m stressing myself,” she wailed dramatically, “over a finding a costume to fit some blonde bimbo who wears a…a…”  
“An E-cup!” chorused the men in the meeting room, echoed enthusiastically by Major Havoc, whose eyes were a glazed as the pile of donuts over by the coffee urn.  
“Sheska, I don’t think you understand…this is history,” he told firmly. “This isn’t just any blonde bimbo---this is Gladys Turlough.”  
Sheska sighed. Given the choice she would have preferred investigating the horrors of Laboratory 5 for General Hughes in the old days rather than getting roped into organizing this birthday tribute for the Fuhrer. She had everything she needed , all neatly organized in her brief case. “Too bad I forgot to pack a mop and a bucket for all the drooling around here,” she shook her head. “I…I give up. You guys have shot down every idea I’ve come up with. The Philharmonic---“  
“---boooooorrrring!” Havoc chimed in.  
“---the Youth Symphony and Choir---“  
“—that would be quite appropriate for the spring festival,” Falman commiserated, “but a fiftieth birthday calls for a more sophisticated offering—“  
“—an evening of jazz? Mustang would enjoy that—“  
“—a lot of the radio listeners wouldn’t. Too progressive—“Fuery fretted.  
“Sheska, this may be Mustang’s birthday, but it’s a benefit. We gotta give the people what they want…and the people want boobs.” Havoc made a generous cupping gesture towards his chest. “Beautiful women. Chorus lines with lotsa leg. And boobs. Gladys Turlough isn’t called the Ice Cream Blonde for nothing!”  
Sheska slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “And why do they call her The Ice Cream Blonde?”  
Havoc’s expression became reverent, like that of a Letoist kneeling in the stained glass splendor of the old cathedral in Liore. “Because they’re like…two…perfect scoops of the most luscious, creamy vanilla you can imagine….and all you wanna do all day is lick ‘em.” The silence that followed was punctuated by a discreet ahem from the corner where Hawkeye was taking notes. “Well?? Am I right, guys? Mustang may live with Ed and all but he still appreciates some esthetically pleasing cleavage…and legs.”   
“I’ve heard she’s temperamental,” Hawkeye cut in coolly. “The last thing we need is a performer who could be difficult on the night of the gala.” The assembled men looked uneasy. Gladys Turlough was a fixture on the entertainment pages of the Central Times—and would have been on the police blotter had her agent not spread buckets of cens around to keep her escapades out of the public eye. Chris Mustang had even barred her from her supper club—and that was coming from a woman who staff still occasionally rented by the hour. Her fans called her ‘high spirited’. Chris Mustang called her ‘hell in high heels”.   
“All right. If she’s officially in the gala, who’s going to keep her out of trouble?”  
“—before we get her into the cake, that is,” Havoc clarified.  
A lone figure at the end of the table had been listening with quiet attention. He was a late-comer to the proceedings, having arrived in from Creta only three days before.   
He rose, adjusted his silk scarf and gestured politely for silence. “Gentlemen---and ladies?” He bowed politely to Sheska and Hawkeye. “I’ll assume responsibility for Miss Turlough. She will be at the theatre on time, appropriately dressed, sober, and ready to serenade.”  
Hawkeye looked suspicious. “You can guarantee this?”  
The newcomer offered her a boyish grin that was sincerity personified. “I give you my word, Colonel Hawkeye. The Ice Cream Blond will be…in good hands.”   
The Colonel thought she heard Havoc mutter something under his breath that sounded like ‘lucky bastard’. She ignored him and nodded to the younger man in the aeronaut’s scarf.  
“Thanks, Alphonse.”   
###  
“You’re back. Alive.”  
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Ed slid into the back seat of the staff car that came to the Aerodrome to pick him up. “Why’d they send you? “  
“Your son’s car—“  
Ed cringed. “Lemme guess—he tried out a new fuel mix and it blew the engine?”  
“Blew it half way across the garage. Your daughter finds that very amusing. She arrived yesterday and they’ve been fighting over that old wreck since she got here. If you weren’t such a cheapskate you’d buy Nina her own car.”  
“Nina can buy her own like Maes did. There’s a reason my kids aren’t spoiled little bastards. Even you have to admit that, Ruby.”  
“Yeah. They turned out all right in spite of you. Must have been Mrs. Curtis’ influence,” she grudgingly admitted. “Hope you know all hell’s about to break loose around here, right?”  
“Define ‘hell’. I’ve seen a couple of ‘em in my life. If it doesn’t involve a river of blood, crazy assed nut jobs with Philosopher’s Stones, would-be gods or homunculi, I can probably deal with it, Ruby.”  
She glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. “Something called democracy. You ever heard of it?”  
“Before my time,” Ed shrugged, “but it looks good on paper. Gonna be ratified on New Year’s Day. Mustang’s gonna stick his dick out on the line and let the people vote him back into office.”  
“Yeah? Well, lemme give you a news flash, Little Man. The Big Guy with the Big Ego better not trip over his own dick. I got a feeling he’s not going to just waltz right back into the Command Office, in uniform or out.”  
Ed snorted with laughter. “Load of crap and you know it! I mean, Mustang’s the most popular president this nation’s had, long as anybody can remember. It’s not like anybody would be stupid enough to run against him!”  
There was something about her smug silence that gave Edward a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a couple of miles, he blurted out, “Do you know something I don’t know?”  
“Usually.”  
“Awww, c’mon, Ruby! I know you’d like to cut my head off and spit down my neck, but…you’ve done okay since Roy’s been in office. Right? You know he’s the best man for the job!”  
She stopped the car and turned around, giving him an appraising look that made his hackles rise. “Maybe the best man for the job is a woman, Ed. Ever think of that?”  
###  
Grumman’s birthday gift came early. “Getting on now, son. Hoping I might die in the bed of a beautiful young woman, Roy, so open this when you get it. Regards, Grumman.”  
It was wrapped in an archival envelope and was so old and so brittle Roy had to lay the old book flat on a table to read it. It was one of the only surviving translations of The Theory of The Democratic Republic by the Xerxian philosopher Cleisthenes, whose works had been preserved in the Great Library in Xing. Far from being a dry read, Roy found himself chuckling over the ancient’s sharp edged wit, particularly a passage that read :”It is sensible to conclude that one useless man is called a shame and a disgrace. Two useless men are called a Council of Law, and three or more useless men are called a Parliament. It is the unenviable task of the President of a Democratic society to unite such useless and self-serving souls into a Body of Government worthy of the people it presumes to serve—however under the best of circumstances that task can be equated to the herding of cats.”  
In his mind he silently lifted a glass to the old man, now confined to a wheelchair and prone to pinching any woman hired to nurse him. Old goat…he’ll be missed when he goes. Who knows what he might have accomplished if he’d stayed in office as long as I have…

Below him, the Parliament rumbled like some uneasy beast. This was the closing session before Harvest and Solstice—they would reconvene after New Year’s. A motion had been put forward to hold a national election for the presidency, with the permanent retirement of the military position of Fuhrer. To Roy’s relief the arguments may have been sharp but they were mercifully brief. After three weeks of simmering tempers it was being put to a vote. “You do understand what you stand to lose here, Fuhrer?” the Minister for the North had asked him bluntly. “If candidates who meet the requirements are found, you may find yourself in a close election. You may even lose.”  
Roy refused to rise to the bait. “Then l lose. That’s the way democracy works. The people of Amestris have been treated like sheep for decades. Fuhrer Grumman made the first steps to giving our people back the right to vote for their president. I’m completing a promise to make this country a democracy, pure and simple.”  
They would adjourn to vote in about fifteen minutes. Down on the floor, seated among the floor runners and interns and pages he could see an elegantly dressed young woman—too young, really, to wear such peculiar Aerugoan fashion, but in spite of all that she stuck out like a pearl among pebbles, gazing up at Roy with steady affection and support. Her brother, a bit grubby from his workshop, was up in the gallery, his amber eyes intent, one blond eyebrow cocked at half mast as if the hubbub below him was both amusing and exasperating.  
When a tall figure slipped in the side door and grabbed a seat beside the overdressed young lady, Roy could not suppress a smile. He saw Maes dart out of the gallery, moments later joining his family on the floor, hooking one long arm affectionately around his sister, the other over his father’s shoulder. He gave Roy an impudent thumb’s-up.  
Roy rapped the gavel for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen of the assembly—we will reconvene in fifteen minutes to vote on the motion for open election for the office of the President. We are adjourned.”

“How much time do we have?” Ed demanded when he let Roy come up for a breath from a ravenous kiss that was about six months overdue.  
“Not enough for what I want to do to you.” After the better part of half a year, Ed couldn’t have arrived at a worse time. He had stopped off at Rose Hill to clean up and change before heading to the Parliament and it was a test of Roy’s self-discipline not to drag the younger man over to his desk, flip him on his back and chew the zipper right out of his lover’s trousers. Thankfully he was wearing his formal uniform, which provided some modest concealment of an erection that, Roy feared, was draining all the blood out of his head. “Damn, you look good.” His eyes scanned the familiar features. There was something in Edward’s expression that filtered through the hunger and joy of holding his lover again. He drew back a fraction and held Edward at arm’s length. “Talk to me. I know that look.”  
Damn. He knows me too well. “Nothing that can’t wait—and nothing about you and me or the family. Okay?” Ed shook off Roy’s grip and yanked him close again. “But I’m damn glad to be back…and I’ve got a special present for you. Have to give it to you when everybody’s at dinner tonight.” He colored, looking suddenly awkward as he had been in the first days of their relationship.  
Relieved, Roy gave his lover a slow smile, full of innuendo. His mouth brushed the rim of Edward’s ear, warm breath doing utterly unfair things to Edward’s nervous system, including raising goose-bumps on his arms, raising the hair on the back of his neck, accelerating his pulse and indecently tenting out the front of his trousers. “I’m afraid what I’ve got for you isn’t appropriate for a family audience.” A soft nip right under his ear and Edward began to sweat. “It involves vintage champagne, a Xingese silk scarf and a stick of fresh butter. Oh…and perhaps some restraints…just to be sure you don’t run off on another trip before I’m done with you.”  
Ed’s pupils dilated. “Did you say restraints--?”  
“--and butter. Yes…I did. You were very…very…selfish to go off so long…I couldn’t even speak to you and the letters took ages to reach me. I’ve been deprived, Ed, and when I get deprived…I get depraved.”  
“Is that a threat, old man?”  
‘It’s a promise.”  
‘I was hoping you’d say---ohhh, what the fuck is that?” Somebody was knocking on the door. Ed glanced at his watch. “Shit—it’s not even quarter past—“  
“Dad! Uncle Roy! The press is out here! You guys might want to pull yourselves together and come on out before they let themselves in!” Maes warned through the closed door.

“Fuhrer Mustang! Sir! If the vote is defeated, what will you do?”  
“We’ll address that as the final tally warrants---“  
“—Sir! Are aware that there are already a number of public figures who are discussing the outcome—that may risk running against you in the new year?”  
“That’s commendable, and I wish them good luck and a fair fight on the campaign trail…”  
“Fuhrer! Is your family rallying around you because you are concerned that your motion is going to be defeated?”  
“My family has gathered around because the holidays are coming up, as well as my birthday, and we intend to spend time together---“  
“—speaking of your birthday, Sir—were you aware of the new biography Kelley Winchell has written about you that’s due out on your fiftieth birthday?”  
Roy froze for an instant. He glanced at Edward. That’s what’s got him upset. As if the bleatings of a two-bit hack could do me any harm,  
Then again—it was that same two-bit hack who wrote an expose about Grumman that eventually led to him resigning and appointing Roy to take his place.  
Damn it.  
He flashed the cameras his most winning smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have a great deal of time to catch up on popular fiction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return for the vote…”  
###  
Roy was too exhausted to be jubilant. He wasn’t even particularly interested in the splendid family supper Ramsay had put before them. Elycia and Gracia had joined them, and Havoc, Hawkeye, Breda and Dr. Knox rounded out the crowd around the table. Ed and Roy sat close together, with Maes and Nina on either side “to keep you two from flipping bread rolls at each other,” Ed teased. When Ramsay offered strawberry tart or cream puffs with caramel sauce, Roy murmured a suggestion that Ed should opt out on the sweets. “We’ll have dessert later.” It was just loud enough and suggestive enough for Maes to hear it and he made a great show of leaping up and putting his hands over his sister’s ears, declaring that Nina was obviously far too innocent to hear such randy talk. “That’s not what she said in her letters!” Elycia blurted out then turned scarlet when her friend shot her a killing look. “Remind me to send you to a Letoist convent so you’ll stay out of trouble,” Ed mock-growled at his daughter, who broadly protested that she always behaved like a lady. “Yeah, pure as the driven slush, that one!” his son hooted, earning himself a rap on the top of the head from his father’s knuckles.  
Presently, Ed tapped his wine glass with his spoon and called for attention. Roy noted that odd, flustered expression was back again. He seemed to be struggling with something and Nina, sensing her father’s mood, reached past Roy to lay her hand over his. “Daddy? What’s the matter?”  
Ed stared down at his plate. “Nothing the matter. It’s just…kinda strange. Not used to…y’know…I don’t…” He took in a deep breath. His eyes darted to Roy’s. “Laugh at me and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”  
Everyone went silent. Roy nodded slowly. “I give you my word.” He glanced at Maes, who nodded. “None of us will. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”  
“Okay…okay. I….wanted to say this in front of everybody, ‘cause…y’know I don’t talk. About. These….things. Y’know?” He gnawed his lower lip , struggling for the right words and it would have been downright comical if Ed hadn’t clearly seemed so uncomfortable. “But…all these years you were just…right out there. I mean,” his eyes darted across the table to Gracia, “when all that stuff came out about you and Hughes, you didn’t deny anything that was truth. You didn’t deny me or tell me to hide…or make excuses or y’know, find some woman to…y’know…cover for us. President of the fuckin’ nation and you had the balls to dance with me in public, and stand there with Maes and Nina and say to the world ‘hey, these are my kids and I’m proud of them’. Damn, that took guts. And now you’re about to risk everything you’ve worked for—everything that matters to you---to keep a promise you made to me and to Hughes to make this country a democracy….to give us the rights we handed over to the Fuhrers in the last century…I just wanted to say…I’m …I’m in this with you. All the way. And…ohhh hell!” Roy’s hand covered Edward’s and gripped it tightly. “You told me you’d never mention it until I was ready. If I was ever ready. So…I just wanted to say….let’s go ahead and get a couple of rings and make this official. Let’s do this right. Okay?”  
Roy didn’t answer for a long time. When he finally looked at Edward there was a certainty in that steady dark gaze that didn’t even require an answer—but answer he did. “I won’t ask you if you’re sure,” Roy said slowly. “You wouldn’t ask me if you weren’t. I am curious why you wanted to ask me in front of everyone instead of when we were alone.”  
Ed shook his head. “I—I knew you’d believe me if I risked making an ass of myself.” He glanced at Nina, then Maes. “And it affects their lives too, even if they are grown…mostly.”  
Roy placed his hands firmly on Ed’s shoulders. While they never made a secret of their relationship they were seldom if ever demonstrative around anyone other than the kids, who had been invited into their hugs nearly all their lives. He was about to speak when Nina touched his arm gently. “Poppy…it’s okay. It really is.” On the other side, Maes gave his father’s back a playful shove. “”Go’wan…if you can’t kiss him in front of us, where else?”  
A scarred hand slid from Ed’s shoulder to curl around the back of his neck. ‘I’d say its about damn time,” Roy answered simply before pulling his long time lover close enough for a reasonably chaste but lingering kiss that held the promise of better things to come when they were in private. And when they embraced their children were cheering loudly and hugging them both, Nina’s assumed sophistication evaporating as she broke down and wept, alternately kissing both of her fathers and even her brother’s cheek as well. Elycia jumped out of her seat and joined them. “Uncle Roy,” she whispered in his ear, “Daddy would be so happy…I just know it. He was always telling you to get married, wasn’t he?”  
Ed grinned up at Hughes’ little girl, now all grown up and running Il Gattina on her own. “Yeah, but he was always telling Roy to get a wife!”  
Roy didn’t miss a beat. “You’ll look lovely in white satin and a veil.’  
“What the fuck?” Ed scowled and raised his fist. “You’d have to shoot me and stuff my dead ass in a dress.”  
“Tinker can be the flower girl,” Nina teased.  
“And I’ll get the flowers right off your grave, Nitwit!” her brother growled back.

Alphonse Elric was always keen in his observation of others, a trait he developed when he had no body and all the sleepless time in the world to roll things over and over in his mind—a habit he’d never lost. The candles on the table were above eye level, and when Roy pulled Edward into his arms amid the clapping and cheering he saw a queer expression shadowing Riza Hawkeye’s face for just a second before it was willed away. The light from the candles flickered on her cognac brown eyes in a way that suggested to him that she was struggling to keep them from brimming over. At the edge of her formal uniform collar Alphonse could see her pulse jump. Her hands moved mechanically as she applauded the couple, arms stiff, expression carefully schooled. He noticed Havoc tossing her a quick, appraising look as if to gage her mood. To the eye she was as cool as ever. Havoc, not the most perceptive man in the world, turned his attention back to Ed and Roy, cheering as loudly as the rest of the table.   
This isn’t good, he told himself. Not sure what I can do, if anything. Alphonse was a man who genuinely loved women—loved them, understood them and cared for them as people. Oh, he admired their beauty, without a doubt. It was their minds that fascinated him So many men took women for granted, objectified them or referred to them by their body parts—a piece of ass, a great pair of knockers, pussy, etc. Alphonse had broken quite a few noses over the years instructing other males to behave like gentlemen. He loved women and seeing Riza struggling inwardly to maintain her composure and feigning a happiness she clearly didn’t feel troubled him deeply. When Maes pressed a glass of champagne into her hand, the fingers that clutched the stem were trembling almost imperceptively.  
He would never forget seeing her fall apart in that battle with the homunculi when she believed Roy was dead. She was ready to die. She was actually ready to give up her life. And brother said she threatened suicide when Roy was out of his mind with grief, trying to kill Envy in the tunnels. If she really loved Roy, giving up and harming herself would be the last thing she’d want to do if she thought he was dead. No, she’d fight harder and never give up, keep living for his sake. This is so wrong…so wrong…  
She was staring at Mustang—and Roy was only seeing Edward, a satisfied smirk on his face as Edward ranted and yelled over the suggestions that he wear a dress to their wedding. She never took her eyes off him….and Alphonse never took his eyes off her…  
###  
Caramel was exceptionally sticky and nearly impossible to get out of velvet, silk or pubic hair. Butter was exceptionally slick, but it melted and dripped. Being an optimist, Roy chose to see the advantages of both substances, and if they made a bit of a mess on the upholstery on the red velvet chaise in Room 5, well, that’s what alchemy was for. They had used and abused that poor piece of Gilded Age furniture so hard and so often and so messily that it was a wonder its molecular structure hadn’t begun to disintegrate from the countless times Roy had reshaped it or remade it just to keep the upholstery clean.  
Aunt Chris ruled the restaurant from her armchair, greeting her guests as they arrived. Rebecca Catalina did the legwork now, and it was Rebecca that collected the annual rent on Roy and Ed’s private love nest. In return, Room 5 was always spotless, the small ice box was well provisioned with fresh butter, whipped cream, honey, chocolate sauce, champagne and strawberries. In addition, the ‘toy chest’ was also stocked with oils and lotions and its more anatomically correct contents carefully locked away from the prying eyes of the cleaning staff. There had been one little blonde that Rebecca had been forced to dismiss when she caught the girl kneeling beside the toy chest, staring frankly at a set of priceless solid jade pleasure beads strung on Xingese silk. “That’s not a necklace,” Rebecca snapped. “Get Chris to write you a check. I don’t want to see you around here again, understand?”  
Tonight she had laid out plenty of fresh towels in the adjoining bathroom, topped off the shampoo bottles and unwrapped new bars of Roy’s favorite sandalwood soap. The butter was in its gilded crock, and she’d placed certain specified items on a covered serving tray from Spenser’s Adult Emporium where Mustang had a private charge account. The Fuhrer was a generous tipper—Rebecca was quite accustomed to the well-stuffed envelopes he left for her after every night of debauchery he and Edward spent in their hideaway.  
“They’re on their way,” Chris told her gruffly. “They just got engaged, Roy says. Send them some strawberry cheesecake.”  
“On the house?”   
“Hell no! I’m not running a charity soup kitchen around here!”  
###  
“Should I carry you over the threshold?”  
Ed punched him hard in the shoulder. “Start that crap with me and I’ll marry you just so I can divorce you and sue your ass for mental cruelty.” He sniffed and then grinned. Something smelled warm and brown-sugary and he gave his lover a wicked grin. “Is that what I think I smell?”  
A sly smile answered him back. “Tonight’s menu features ‘Salted Caramel Surprise’.   
“HUH??”  
Before Edward could inquire further a pair of handcuffs were snapped on both of his wrists and they were quickly and alchemically fused to the ornate iron wall hook that previously held a hanging basket of flowers. Roy lifted the cover off the silver service tray, revealing a couple of long silk scarves and a small warming dish filled with what appeared to be caramel dipping sauce. One of the scarves was put over his eyes after several breathless kisses. Ed had no idea where the second one was going, but Roy had just grabbed hold of his waistcoat and shirtfront and casually ripped them open, buttons pinging off the walls.   
Something very warm and rich-smelling was brushed over his lips and then sensuously licked off.   
Ed groaned. His fiancée chuckled. “Surprise…”  
….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	5. SALTED CARAMEL (AND OTHER SURPRISES)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed finds himself on the menu when Roy is ready for dessert—and Havoc’s eye may be straying from Riza. Another Military officer plans to join the presidential race against Roy—and Elycia Hughes shows Kelley Winchell she’s every bit as loyal to Roy-- and as crafty-- as her late father

Roy Mustang was all too familiar with the destructive qualities of fire. He was equally aware that fire heals, especially the fire kindled between bodies. He was quick to deny it, but sometimes the only thing that made the long separations bearable was the healing flame generated when skin touched skin—breath to breath, hip to hip—after such a long absence. He needed that sweet friction and spark set off when lovers give of themselves, all the while equally greedy to take and take and take.  
Edward was flushed, skin damp and deliciously salty, playfully bound, a silk scarf over his eyes. “I’ll turn you loose in a moment,” Roy purred throatily in his ear. “Are you all right like that?”  
“Y..yeah…” He licked his lips and tasted traces of warm caramel and the tongue that had feathered it off. He shuddered. Being engaged to an older, more sophisticated man who was reared in a whorehouse had distinct advantages at times. This was one of them. Before Roy, his notion of sex was in, out, off, out the door and downstairs before he felt any more awkward. Oh, it felt good enough, but there was still that uncomfortable feeling that was too close to incest, and when he was honest—honest, and drunk and miles away, mostly—he recognized that while there was nothing strictly wrong with Winry, it was hard to feel rampaging lust for a girl who’d been raised as his sister.

Edward might stumble over an endearment but after fifteen years in Roy’s bed he had learned to speak the language of passion very eloquently. Roy was an unabashed sensualist—inventive, often playful, his eyes taunting his lover, daring to see how far they could push the boundaries of pleasure together. Even after all this time he kept Ed off balance, never knowing if the night’s encounter would be tender, silly, intense or abandoned. Would it be slow, sensual tongue baths and Ishballan erotic poetry breathed against Ed’s skin or would Roy mount his back like a stallion, ride him like some feral beast, growling low obscenities in his throat? Ed never knew and that made him return home to his lover’s bed with an appetite that increased as time went by.  
As for Edward, his awkwardness in bed had vanished once Roy led him into the discovery of his own wants and needs. After sex he was drowsy and tender and the kisses were as leisurely as the hands that caressed Roy’s skin. In the act of love, however, Ed was assertive, if not downright aggressive. He was not afraid to tell Roy what he wanted, how hard, how deep--or he might even flip Roy over on his back, climb up and force that steely phallus inside, rocking down hard and snarling out curses. Or he would yank those ivory thighs apart, drape the long legs over his shoulders and grind into the older man with no mercy at all, covering the pale chest with love bites and sucking Roy’s nipples so hard they stung. Maybe this was what he’d been afraid of before, afraid to fuck like an animal, not trusting himself or trusting his former wife to understand…or more to the point, he simply couldn’t let go in the bed of the girl who had gone from sister to wife with no transition. Roy met him more than half way—strength for strength, lust for lust. Roy taught him to revel in both surrender and conquest and in the end it didn’t matter who rode or who was ridden. When the fires were quenched eyes met eyes with trust and love and they would lie in the dark together, contentedly entwined, grinning and utterly at peace. 

He could hear the whisper of buttons slipping through buttonholes, of fine wool and crisply starched linen being folded and laid aside. His own shirt and waistcoat had been torn open—easy enough to repair with alchemy when they were done. Roy’s breath was warm against his belly as Roy knelt to undo his trousers and remove his shoes. Naked in just his open shirt and waistcoat he shivered with want, aware that Roy was circling him, admiring him, fingers tracing the curve of well-cut abs, the soft golden down under his arms, the ripple of scarred back muscles. At last he pushed the remains of Ed’s clothing aside and curled himself around his lover, chest to back, after guiding Ed’s flesh foot up onto a stool Roy had dragged over. It made Ed’s stance more stable and comfortable and spread his thighs at just the perfect angle for probing kisses and questing fingers.  
“I missed the way you smell.” Ed shuddered as Roy softly nuzzled the back of his neck. Something silken and hot circled his inner ear. ‘And the way you taste….all over.”  
“Shit!” Gritting his teeth, there was nothing Ed could do. His wrists were bound, his eyes blindfolded, his feet positioned just so…opening him for his lover’s eyes. The curious tongue swirled and stroked its way down along his spine, interspersed with sharp nips that caught his breath. Roy drew back and then he gasped as something thick and cold pressed against his opening, pressed inside as a hot mouth lapped at the moisture that was dripping down his length like hot wax on a burning candle. He knew what it was and why it would last only a few quick thrusts before the heat of his insides melted it. The melted butter trickled down his thigh—mixed with his and Roy’s own rich muskiness it was a scent he associated with some of the most soul-shaking nights of sex he’d ever had in this room. It meant Roy intended to play upon his body like a fine instrument in the hands of a virtuoso. His head fell back, eyes closed beneath the blindfold. “Do it,” he whispered. “Whatever you want…I don’t care…”  
The warmth of the melted caramel had something of the pleasant shock of Roy’s mouth or his insides, but instead of the delicious tightness it was thick and silky and as warm as Roy was when he was rooted deep in that splendid body. Roy was kissing his mouth slowly as he stirred the thick sweet stuff with the head of Edward’s captured cock.  
He slid abruptly to his knees and plunged the whole treat into his mouth, humming with delight as he sucked and tongued and lapped at the reddened tip, sweet with caramel and salty from the beads of pearly fluid that pulsed from him with each caress. He rose and slid his tongue into Edward’s mouth, sharing. “See how good you taste?” Roy whispered into Ed’s open mouth. Ed sweated and shivered, his mind melting into something primal and pre-verbal. He could only make low, half moaning sounds that had long since ceased to sound human.  
Licked clean, Roy then bathed Ed’s member with a basin of warm water and a silken sponge, drying him carefully. Then the second silk scarf came into play.   
Roy moved in close from behind, the slick crown of his own cock brushing Ed maddeningly under his balls and against the well-buttered opening that Ed wanted filled and plundered. Roy wrapped the scarf around Ed’s length the way Ed would often wrap his own silken hair around Roy’s shaft, tugging it this way and that and making Roy wail and thrash and demand release. “Now you know how it feels,” Roy hissed , rubbing himself against the furl of muscle that clenched at his tip when he half breached it. Edward was slick with sweat now and his legs were shaking. “I want….I…want…”  
“---this….” A slow push now, since it had been months since Ed had been breached. The butter slicked him within and without and there was very little resistance, although Ed was panting now as if he was running a race. Once deeply rooted, Roy tightened the silk scarf, under and around his balls and his shaft, binding him tightly. “You can’t come until I release you…so enjoy the ride…”  
Roy churned his hips, his rigid cock churning Ed’s insides and pulling strange keening sounds from his throat. His cock was straining against the silk, wetting it, as Roy’s hands swept his torso, along his straining arms, over his flanks, pinching at his nipples, one hand sliding between Ed’s cheeks to stroke where they were joined, teasing that ring of muscle that strained and stretched to welcome his lover. ‘This is my wedding ring,” Roy groaned in his ear. “This is the ring you gave me and nobody else…” His finger slid in alongside his cock, rubbing it from within. Ed hissed and sobbed and his knees buckled. “I’ll wear it till I die…I swear it…I swear it…with this ring…I thee wed…”  
A clap of his hands and the blindfold was gone his hands were free and Ed howled and bucked hard, shouting for Roy to take it, take it hard---take it all…to take him. Roy bit his lip and slammed his hips once…twice again…then pulsed inside his lover.  
Before Ed could recover he found himself flat on his back with Roy crouching over him like a madman, spreading himself, guiding himself down until he was pressed hard into the sweat-matted curls of Edward’s groin. Ed rose half up, straining to kiss him, balls near to bursting as that wet heat owned him. He clutched at Roy’s buttocks, spreading him wide, digging his nails in the straining muscle. Roy’s eyes burned into his as he squeezed the shaft inside him. “My ring,” Ed grunted. “Give it to me!” Roy slammed down, tightened, sucked hard on Edward’s tongue then yanked the silk free.  
Ed burst inside him, hot and thick, Roy’s name a strangled shout as he thrust blindly, riding out the last waves of pleasure.

On the other side of the door, standing watch, Jean Havoc wiped the sweat off his face. He was stiff in his pants—hell, he’d almost spooged himself. Not that he was attracted to men—hell, no! But all that energy—those…sounds…a guy couldn’t help it if his dick got hard. In his mind, massive breasts that tasted like vanilla ice cream were rearing up to his mouth and there was something wet between creamy thighs that tasted even better. He should have at least thought of Riza when he rubbed himself off in the Gent’s – he should have thought of her when he came but lately she’d been preoccupied and their coldest arguments occurred when he suggested that they break some bed slats and mess up some sheets. Women were mysterious creatures, he told himself as he wiped down and tucked back in, and there was just no figuring them out. Maybe the Boss and Ed were better off than they knew….

###  
“The vote passed?”  
“As expected.” There was a discreet pause. “You’ll be going through with your plans?”  
The officer behind the desk didn’t even dignify that with an answer. “There’s no stipulated restriction on military or ex-military?”  
“None. But the elected candidate will not serve as a military Fuhrer, but as a civilian President. That would mean retiring or resigning a military commission to prevent conflict of interest.”  
“Hmmmm….I see. Well, the advantage of that is that an officer can always accept re-commission, and in times of war or national emergency a retired officer can be called back to active service if he or she is fit for duty.” There was a knowing smile. “And any fool who’s read their history books understands that times of peace and plenty are always little more than a brief interlude. It is against human nature to expect men to co-exist in harmony for very long. There is always conflict simmering along the borders. Peace is tenuous. It’s not wise to get too comfortable.”  
“So there’s no impediment to your running? You’re going to oppose Mustang?”  
“Was there any question that I would not? If nothing else,” there was a harsh smile now, “that greenhorn upstart needs to be reminded that command has to be earned, not given. He’s getting soft. Grumman put him in that office. Let’s see if he deserves to keep it, shall we?”

###  
Elycia Hughes had made up her mind as a young girl that one day she would own the Il Gattina bakery. At twenty-four she was young to take over, but she had gone to work there part time since her early teens and Sophie had taken her on as an apprentice ten years ago. With her father’s level head and planning skills and her mother’s artistic sense she had done very well indeed, and once she came into her trust fund at 21 she had more than enough money to buy in as a co-owner. When Sophie’s health became a problem, Elycia proposed to take over the establishment and leave the accounting to Sophie so she could stay off her feet. It was an arrangement that was agreeable to everybody and soon business was better than ever. Under Elycia’s management they had even begun to market a line of pastries for sale in neighborhood markets and a newly inked agreement with the Funny Bear Ice Cream parlors gave them distribution rights to special ice cream flavors that Elycia dreamed up, inspired by people she knew and loved. There was a strawberry ‘short’ cake for Edward, a rich vanilla bean and fudge swirl for Alphonse, cool mint chip for Nina, a decadent coffee with dark chocolate chunks for Roy and for Maes there was Absolutely Nuts—a name nobody would argue with.  
She was doing well and had expanded the little shop to add a larger full service café. It was bright and airy and a popular luncheon spot in Central, serving as hostess to greet the diners and insure that every meal was as delicious as the pastries and ice cream and chocolates sold on the other side. 

The lady seated in the corner had been the first in for the day, arriving moments after the door opened. “A salad and a cup of soup, please, and ice water with lemon to go with that,” she requested.  
Nan, the pretty waitress who was Sophie’s youngest sister, nodded and smiled as she penciled in the order on her pad. “That comes with our honey whole wheat rolls, They won’t be out of the oven for about ten minutes, but I can bring you some as soon they’re done and serve you your soup and salad now, if that would be all right?”  
“No thank you, dear.” The blonde woman patted her flat tummy proudly. “I’m watching my girlish figure. Have to look trim—the camera puts five pounds on you, you know!” There was something about her altogether-too-sweet tone of voice that put Nan’s teeth on edge, rather like someone who thought herself very clever and didn’t believe the rest of the world was quite up to speed with her. “ I’ve just spent a hellish amount on this dress and getting my hair styled—mustn’t spoil my looks! Would you be a darling and serve my soup in a cup so I won’t spill?” The woman pulled out a tiny silver compact and applied a layer of surprisingly red lipstick that Nan knew would be hell to get off the coffee cups.   
Elycia stopped by the table to greet her customer, overhearing the comment. “Perhaps you might like to substitute your rolls with a side of our seasonal fruit salad.”  
The woman frowned. “Canned fruit? Dreadful stuff. Can’t believe you serve that rubbish.”  
Elycia bristled. “All of our salads are freshly made, Ma’am. Our fruit is fresh from Aerugo, shipped every week in the autumn and winter---“  
“—one of those little perks of being part of the Fuhrer’s entourage, I imagine.” She made a sweeping gesture around the room. “I suppose ‘Uncle Roy’ paid for this too.”  
“I’ll bring you your soup,” the younger woman’s eyes narrowed above a smile that was still welcoming, ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“If Maes were here, he’d be tempted to spit in it, “ Elycia snapped to Nan as she poured the savory broth into a mug for her unpleasant customer.”  
“Her?” Nan’s eyes grew wide. “I’d be careful with that one, Miss Elycia. She’s like to write a book about you, shame your name all over if she don’t like the meal. She’s a snake in silk stockings---and I hope she spills the lot all over her dress!”  
The passion of that outburst startled Elycia. “Nancy—just who is she, anyway?”  
Dark brown eyes snapped with anger. “Don’t you know? She’s that horrid woman who wrote that book about nice Mister Armstrong bein’ a coward and all—and about how his big sister the Major General,” she lowered her voice, “is…well…a Tom girl! Can you believe it?”  
“You mean, that’s Kelley Winchell?”  
“The very one, Miss.”  
“I’m half temped to spit in her soup myself.” Elycia had seen the poster in the bookstore advertising ‘Fire and Vice’ and didn’t find it particularly amusing. Bad enough this loathsome gossip was going after Uncle Roy, but she was certain her father’s name would be dragged through the mud and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if her and her mother wouldn’t figure in the narrative as well. “She knows who I am.”  
“Nine’ll give you ten on that one, Miss. She’s probably reckoning that you don’t know her well on sight—or if you do, you’re too well raised to say anything to her.”  
“If this weren’t a public place, oooh! What I wouldn’t say to her!”

She brought Kelley Winchell her mug of soup, a crisp garden salad with a generous handful of roasted chicken chunks scattered over the top and a light vinaigrette dressing on the side. The fruit salad had been chopped by hand, the apples and pears crisp and juicy, accompanied by dried cranberries and toasted walnut pieces. She’d have served this luncheon to the fearsome Chef Ramsay at the Palace and not been afraid of critique. Winchell pointedly ignored it, flicking ashes from her cigarette over it before stubbing out the butt on the fruit plate. Winchell complained, in that nasty-nice way of hers, that the soup was too salty and would make her bloat, the chicken in her salad was too dry and the dressing tasted like it came out of a bottle—“but I supposed that can’t be helped, my dear. After all, you are so very young to try to run a restaurant by yourself.”  
“Not expecting a tip from that rat-bag, I’m tellin’ you,” Nan sighed.   
Tip….that gave Elycia an idea. Il Gattina was on the corner and the parking area they shared with Chris Mustang’s restaurant was closed off while being repaved. She glanced at the clock. “Half past eleven on a Thursday. That means….”  
She darted back to the bakehouse, where Jake Leeson, the boy who had been shot in the alley by General Edison when Elycia had been taken hostage, was now her assistant manager. He had gotten part time work at Il Gattina’s after recovering from his wounds and Chris Mustang had footed the bill for Jake’s bakery apprenticeship and bought her breads exclusively from Il Gattina for her own successful establishment. Jake, if anything, was more efficient than even Elycia, overseeing every detail from finding the sweetest cherries for their cordial chocolates to making sure the grease traps were cleaned and that the trash went out three times a day.   
“Jake!’ she shouted above the din of oven doors slamming and trays of hot rolls being slapped on marble counters. ‘Have they done the traps yet?”  
“Mr. Rowe’s out there now!” Nobody envied the poor man who had to muck out the grease traps and tip them into the trash truck. They were shared by both Il Gattina and Mustang’s and the reek of rancid beef fat was so offensive that, as Maes put it, ‘it could knock a buzzard off a shithouse’.   
“Excellent!” She gave Jake a hug and darted out the back door.

“Sorry, Ma’am, but you can’t press charges. This isn’t the reserved lot. You parked in the alley—which is public property,” the police officer informed Miss Winchell as she shouted and waved her arms furiously. A great splash of something greasy and foul-smelling covered the hood of her expensive new brougham. The windows were thankfully rolled up but the stench would take some time to dissipate once the muck had been scrubbed off. “You’d just as well sue the pigeons that poo’ed on your windshield. If I were you, I’d park somewhere else next time.”

Mr. Rowe and Jake were hiding out in the storeroom, roaring with laughter. Elycia popped in her head, eyes dancing with ill-concealed glee. “That’ll teach that old cow,” she told them. “Lunch is on me, guys!”  
….TO BE CONTINUED…


	6. HELL IN HIGH HEELS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Flame vs. Full Figure as a legendary Amestrian Sex Goddess tries to get her mitts on Mustang—and once again Havoc loses to his boss. Meanwhile Ed, Ruby and Gracia scheme to get their hands on the scandalous—and potentially dangerous—Mustang biography---and the fate and true identity of Selim Bradley may finally be exposed to the world

“ED! Do you MIND??”  
The voice from the other side of the bathroom door was not even remotely repentant. “Hey, I didn’t put pickled beef and cabbage on the menu last night. Not my fault my gut’s not happy!”  
“Well….drink some of Chen’s tea or take some bismuth or something!”  
The laughter on the other side of the door was fiendishly vindictive. “Dare ya to snap your fingers.”  
“There’s not enough fire insurance to cover blowing the roof off. You done in there?” Ed’s habits of monopolizing the bathroom irked Roy every morning. Ed wasn’t the only person whose digestion could be temperamental, thanks to both of them being pierced through their kidney and intestines on their left sides. Thankfully, the shower and dressing area was separated, but even the mightiest of world leaders has to empty his bladder at some point. “I swear, I’m going to have a second one installed. This is ridiculous!”  
“Yeah, yeah…you’ve been saying that for ten years and you’ve never done it. Keep your pants on…I’m coming out.”  
“Use the spray, damn it.”  
“Coward!” Ed pushed past his lover and headed for the twin sinks. Not that he needed much barbering—Al joked that a cat would be more than adequate for licking off Ed’s whiskers—but he was neat to a fault---at least about his person. His books and papers and desk space may have looked like a bomb hit them but he arrived at his office freshly showered and shaved, his hair pulled back in a neat queue that his lover had combed out for him before leaving.

For all the bitching, there was some kind of comfort Ed drew from the familiarity of morning rituals. The rich sandalwood smell of Roy’s favorite soap, the two razors laid side by side beside two shaving mugs and two finely bristled shaving brushes. Two toothbrushes—“I’ll suck your cock, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll share your toothbrush,” Ed declared. The strangely soothing rite of Roy brushing out the braid he slept in, gathering the shining mass into a single glossy tail that was secured with an elastic to keep it out of Ed’s way. “Cut it more than a trim and I’ll grow my mustache back” Roy threatened. “You’ve got me around to care for it.”   
Mirrors were ignored when they were home together. Roy adjusted Ed’s tie or cravat and handed him his glasses. Ed adjusted Roy’s aiguillette and collar, brushed off his shoulder boards and critically approved the sleek black hair that always threatened to tumble back over Roy’s forehead, the way Ed preferred it. Polished and pressed (with a few rumples from impulsive kisses) they made their way down to breakfast together with whoever was currently in residence  
.  
This morning Nina and Maes were off to their classes and Alphonse had gone out on some early errands. There was a fragrant platter of fried country ham—ordered from Havoc’s General Store—to accompany fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp brown toast with Gracia’s homemade marmalade and enough coffee to drown in, served up in the electrically heated coffee pot that Maes had built with his mother—an anniversary present to Ed and Roy from Winry and Pitt.   
Amid the flapping of newspapers and the slurping of cup after cup of fresh brewed ‘starter fluid’, as Maes called it, Ed and Roy went over their daily schedules.  
“Got two interviews for staff candidates,” Ed mumbled around a bite of toast. “And Pyotir and I have a phone conference planned around noon over that fuel equation. He’s coming up around Solstice—so are Maxim and Alexi.”  
“I’ll alert security,” Roy nodded. Ed’s three lively colleagues from Drachma had scarcely mellowed with age, although Pyotir was much happier now that alchemic advances of sea-going vessels had made travel much faster, meaning that he saw far more of his husband Nikolai than ever. The brief infatuation the older man had felt for Ed years ago was now a thing to be joked over—no hard feelings on either side. “I’ve got an appointment at the Grand Central Theater about that damnable gala. They are trying to persuade me into giving a speech—strikes me as bad form and tacky as hell.”  
Ed studied his fiancée over his cup. “You hate this whole thing.”  
“I do. Unfortunately,” Roy flapped his newspaper irritably, “it appears that a sitting head of state is expressly forbidden to share a private birthday in the bosom of his family. I would rather have a cake baked by Elycia and eat a steak with Aunt Chris than have snails in butter and runny cheese at some ridiculous black tie affair.”  
“Snails? You’re fuckin’ kidding me!”  
“A gift from your dear old friend Pio Ignacio Bacalla. Ramsay contracted him as a vendor. Granted, the wines and cheeses we can get from him are first rate…but lark’s tongues and pigeon brains in aspic? Who does he think I am—Sun King Claudio??” Roy threw his paper and napkin down in disgust. “I’m late as it is. Let me get this over with.”   
A coffee-flavored kiss brushed across Ed’s mouth before Roy straightened his cap. “The last thing we’re going to let them do is ruin our wedding. Agreed?”  
“Damn straight.”

 

Roy stood at center stage, dark eyes flicking here and there, unfamiliar and not altogether comfortable with his surroundings. His footsteps echoed unnaturally. It smelled…odd. Like dust and greasy makeup and overheated light fixtures and musty velvet curtains. The wooden planks beneath him were scarred and covered with flaking black paint.   
When he spoke, his voice carried to ‘the gods’—the cheap seats anybody could afford for a few cenz. He sat there a few times as a young major, right after the war, usually with his arm around somebody’s secretary. In later days he had seats reserved in one of the boxes and would arrive fashionably late, somewhere in the middle of the overture, again escorting someone’s secretary or someone else’s mistress or girlfriend or any other likely beauty whose plump, painted lips might begin to slip after an evening of champagne, theatre and the full force of his charm. The most recent woman he had escorted to the Grand Central Theatre was his daughter for the premier of the stage musical “The Fullmetal Alchemist”, inspired by the lives of her family. While Nina thought the actress playing her father at twelve wonderfully funny, Roy found the whole show about as amusing as having a bullet extracted.  
This time he wasn’t in the Presidential Box. He was on the stage itself and there were people swarming all over him—adjusting the lights, fiddling with his hair, suggesting he needed ‘just a smidge’ of petroleum jelly on his lips to give them a ‘luscious shine’. His right hand twitched; it was a reflex and a warning to anyone who knew him well. As a Colonel I could chew them all out and tell them to leave me the hell alone. I have to be tactful now, damn it. A discreet gesture brought Havoc to his side. “Find out how close we are to being done so I can get the hell out of here,” he whispered.   
Alphonse, sensing his superior officer’s moodiness, politely inquired how much longer did the gala director need the guest of honor. “Just a few more minutes,” he informed the Fuhrer and his assistant. “Miss Turlough has just pulled up—she wants to meet you before you leave.”  
At the mention of the Ice Cream Blonde, Havoc bit his lip. “Al, you lucky son of a bitch.” Al had volunteered to keep Gladys Turlough sober, dressed and well behaved before and during the Presidential Birthday Gala. As far as anyone knew, there were only two men who could conquer a lady’s heart faster than Roy Mustang: King Claudio Rico of Aerugo and Alphonse Elric, the son of a simple farm girl from Resembool. Claudio had vast wealth, a crown and remarkably blue eyes. Alphonse had something…well…not easy to define, Havoc thought. He wasn’t manipulating them, as Mustang had, dating and screwing his way to information about his superiors to make his way to the top. Alphonse was open, kind, generous…and if the ladies were to be believed, he could do things with his tongue and fingers that made women squeal in tones only dogs could hear. Havoc had actually gotten up the nerve to ask Al just exactly what he was doing. The younger Elric just smiled, shrugged and said, “Oh…nothing special. I just want to make them happy.”  
Gladys Turlough had a breathy, baby-voice that oozed sex. Havoc reckoned that when Alphonse got his hands on her every window in a four-block radius would be in danger of shattering from the sonic impact of her sex cries. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered again and the Fuhrer smirked at his annoyance. 

“Amazing…she stopped walking but bits of her are still moving.” One dark brow lifted a fraction. “Proof positive of the laws of physics.” Mustang glanced at his aide. “Breathe, Havoc,” he reminded him sharply.   
“Ohhhh….it’s the Birthday Boy!” It came out as half a gasp, half a squeal and one hundred percent insinuation. Training her thick-fringed baby blue eyes at the Fuhrer, Gladys Turlough sauntered across the stage, leading with her hips but her breasts well ahead of her shoulders. Havoc’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth. Roy discreetly crushed it with his shoe.   
An angora sweater, winter white, mapped out curves that left little to the imagination. Gilded Age Revival might be the latest fashion in Aerugo with the voluminous skirts and corsetry but Gladys Turlough was wondrously out-of-date, sporting a skirt whose brevity magnetized even Mustang’s eyes to a length of creamy white thigh. Her nails were lacquered a soft pearly pink and her frosty lipstick wouldn’t have been too difficult to get out of one’s boxers.   
Ten polished nails danced up Roy’s lapels and he caught a whiff of some costly fragrance that was probably named something like “Caresse” , although “Torn Panties” would have been more appropriate. She tilted her head back to gaze up adoringly into those penetrating black eyes and shivered with delight. “Ohhhhh….I never knew you were so gorgeous up close. I just love older men!”  
“Permit me to introduce you to General Grumman some time,” Roy deflected, discreetly unhooking her from his uniform like the naughty kitten she vaguely resembled. He kissed her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Turlough. I appreciate you agreeing to perform for the gala. I don’t need to tell you that your presence will increase donations for our scholarships. You are helping our young people more than you’ll ever know, and we are very grateful.”  
The lashes fluttered. “I’m always happy to lend a helping—“ her eyes darted down to below Roy’s waist, “---hand…to the young men of Amestris.”  
Alphonse stepped quickly to her side. “And the young women,” he added with his most charming smile.  
Bright blue eyes appraised him the way Izumi appraised a side of beef that would look good on the supper table. The tip of a pink tongue passed over her upper lip. “Young women. I love to make them happy, too.”  
There was a very long silence. Roy nudged Havoc sharply in the ribs. Havoc sucked in his breath noisily. “My apologies, Miss Turlough, but I must be getting back to Parliament. I have a meeting with the Cretan ambassador.” He kissed her hand again. “A pleasure, Ma’am. I look forward to working with you.”  
She guided her hand to her mouth and kissed the spot Roy had touched, eyes never leaving his face. “The pleasure is….all….mine….Fuhrer Mustang.” Alphonse stepped in quickly and took her arm, suggesting that he take her to lunch before going over the scripts and songs for the gala. 

Roy paused before they exited the theatre. “Perhaps you’d like to stop off at the men’s room,” he told Havoc.  
“Sir?”  
“You might want to adjust your trousers. I’ll wait outside.”

Two minutes later Havoc had a stranglehold on an erection that threatened to poke his eye out. Sweat was dripping down his collar. “Mmmmm….ohyeah….that’s good…suck itsuckitHARD…yeahbaby….FUUCKKKYEAHHHHHHH……” Baby pink lips were vacuum-locked around the base of his cock in his fevered imagination, and pearly pink nails were tickling his scrotum. At the last minute he tried to hijack his fantasy of a platinum blonde to one of a more ordinary hue, trading the white angora sweater for a severe blue uniform and black leather boots. His orgasm eluded him and with a trace of guilt he focused again on the smell of exotic perfume, pink polish and a babyish voice cooing in his ear….  
###

“The gala and the Fuhrer’s birthday are next week,” Kelley Winchell informed the woman who was pushing back her cuticles after a long soak in warm, soapy water. “You’ll have to work me in.”  
“Are you going to the gala?” her manicurist asked eagerly. “Gladys Turlough was in here about an hour ago to get her nails done and her legs waxed before meeting Fuhrer Mustang this morning.”  
“Dear me….all that pain of waxing for nothing. Mustang only wants a woman if he wants something from the woman.” She puffed lightly on her cigarette, careful not to smudge her polish. “I should know. Have you seen the advertisements in the bookshops? I’ve got a new book coming out in time for the Fuhrer’s birthday—you ought to read it. Very informative….if you know what I mean.”   
Before she left, she tripled her tip. “I’d love to meet Miss Turlough. You’ll call me when you’ve got an convenient opening in your appointment book on Gala day, won’t you?”

A thousand cens to a trash collector. Ten thousand and a blowjob to a prison warden. Anything to get the story, and as long as her fans lined up at the bookstores she would have capital to invest in research.   
Of course, sometimes all it took was a bit of quick thinking, a change of clothing and she could sweet talk her way in to the homes and offices of the most unwary…

“He’s a good boy,” the old woman had told her visitor over and over again, like a needle stuck in the scratched groove of a phonograph record. “A very good boy.” Her mind had begun to slip into a twilight haze these days. When asked about the late Fuhrer her lips would tremble and her eyes would wander away, coming always to rest on the face of the black haired young man who patted her hand gently, always smiling, his face as simple as his mind.  
Edison had written detailed notes about The Boy. “He’s a simpleton now, after Fullmetal damaged him. There is no knowing what he is truly aware of. But if there is any way his memories can be awakened, more of Mustang’s plot might be discovered.”

Kelley Winchell was not about to leave any stone unturned when digging for source material.

He looked years younger than his visitor had expected, younger than if he had truly been with his adopted father, Fuhrer President Bradley, at the time of the train wreck. He had an odd scar on his forehead—maybe it was a birthmark. He was very innocent—damaged but not a drooling imbecile. Still, he was not competent to care for his aging mother, slipping into senility as she was, and the pretty blonde lady who said she was from the state nursing home smiled at him and brought him sweets and talked kindly to him.   
Mrs. Bradley smiled and nodded and patted her son’s hand. The young man smiled and patted her back. When Mrs. Bradley toddled off for her nap the kind blonde visitor pulled out her notebook and smiled very kindly at her host. “Now, young man,” she asked brightly, “tell me what you remember about Father….”  
Several hours later Mrs. Bradley roused and immediately searched for her son. She found him huddled in the corner, rocking himself for comfort, his face flushed from weeping. “I’m a real boy…I’m real…I’m real…” He stared up at her wildly. “I’m a good boy?”  
The haze in her mind retreated, and Mrs. Bradley struggled down to her knees, pulling him tightly to her breast. “You’re a good boy, Selim….the best boy in the world….”  
###  
“I wanna get my hands on that shit-rag bio of hers. I wanna see it before it hits the press. You’re the devious one. Nobody knows who the hell you are. You figure it out.”  
Ruby put down her coffee and stared at Edward. “Hold on—you’re asking me for a favor?”  
Ed shook his head impatiently. “Not for me, damn it. For Roy. You wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.” He sighed heavily and tugged at the end of his ponytail. “Look, I don’t know what kind of bullshit Winchell is going to print but considering the way she reamed out old Grumman…shit, I can’t let her do this to Roy!” He looked desperate. “Look…you’re in intelligence now. I know Hawkeye briefed you on the Promised Day. Told you all the shit that went down…the shit we wanna keep out of the public—about Father and the Homunculi. Do you have any idea what could happen if that comes out?”   
No one, least of all Edward Elric, could call Ruby of Wisteria Valley a fool. The implications made her shiver. “Yeah…they’ll start burning alchemists at the stake.”  
“And Roy will be the first in line if we don’t help him.”  
Ruby considered. “They might go for you and Al first, you know. It was your father that started all this.” She didn’t mean it unkindly. “He didn’t mean to make it happen, but still…” An awful thought occurred to her. “Maes…Nina….they’re alchemists---and they’re Hohenheim’s blood too.” Ed looked like he’d been kicked in the gut, color draining from his face. Ruby nodded. “Don’t sweat it, Boss. I’ll see if I can call in a few favors….”  
###  
At the Radio Capital office, Gracia Hughes carefully composed her lovely features and kept her eyes on her newspaper, Her ears, however, were sharply tuned to the conversation on the other side of the room. Top news anchor Donal Samuelson, former host of the still-popular Midday Amestris lunchtime program, was in a heated debate with Riley Williams, one of the more controversial political commentators who had his own afternoon call in program.  
“I’d give long odds on the other candidate. Mustang’s going to be hard to beat.”  
“Yeah, well, maybe he’s not too bright. I mean, he’s got the whole shebang in his hands. Why risk it? You don’t get that kind of power and give it up. Unless….”  
“Unless what?”  
“Unless…you know that dame who knocked Grumman’s dick In the dirt? That book she’s got coming out on Mustang? You think she’s got the goods on him?”  
“I don’t know. I’ve covered the Mustang beat for—what—sixteen years? I’ve interviewed him a hundred times. Guy’s slick as an eel about some parts of his life, but when he talks politics he’s not playing around. He’s damned serious about service to his country.”  
“Donal, you don’t sound objective.”  
“I’m as objective as a thinking, educated, rational Amestrian can be about Roy Mustang.”  
‘Huh! That sure as hell puts you in the minority!”

Once they were alone, Gracia brought her old colleague a cup of coffee. “Aren’t you interviewing Kelley Winchell next week?”  
“Yeah…” Donal shook his head. “Not looking forward to that. Ever heard of the term ‘yellow journalism’, Gracie? It means there are writers and reporters out there who take the truth and piss all over it.”  
“Have you read the book yet?” Gracia knew Donal would be given an advance galley copy to research for his interview.  
Donal looked suddenly tired. “Yeah. Yeah, I have, parts of it. Gotta finish it before Monday. You’re not going to like it one damn bit.”  
She kept her voice calm and friendly. “She’s written about Maes and Roy, I’m guessing. It’s not as if I’m in denial. That was before we married and Roy has been like a second father to Elycia and like a brother to me. I don’t think there’s much she can say about that situation that would bother me.”  
He nodded sympathetically. The whole Hughes/Mustang cadet affair was old news and since nobody denied it the impact didn’t have the effect General Edison had hoped. Most people privately sympathized with Gracia for having to find out the hard way, but Roy’s attentiveness to her and her daughter went a very long way in the public eye to making things right. “What else?” she asked.  
“There’s…I don’t know…the most unbelievable rubbish in there about a plot to kill all the people in Amestris by Alchemy---yeah, I know, that’s old news too. But she says she has eyewitness proof that Mustang was in the thick of it—Colonel Hawkeye too. He set her up as a spy in Bradley’s office and used her to set up his death. Supposedly Mustang ordered the bridge blown up to kill Bradley and Selim. She says she knows of one survivor of the incident and corroborates Edison’s notes.”  
“A survivor? Of the train wreck? How on earth is that possible?” she demanded.  
“I haven’t finished it yet. It’s pretty nauseating. I suppose I’ll take it home over the weekend, put a clothespin on my nose and slog through it.”  
“Tell you what—Elycia’s expecting me for lunch. Have you tried her brand new rum cake she’s making for special orders? It’s delicious! I was going over anyway for a sandwich. Why don’t you join me? My treat, of course.”   
“Rum cake? My grandmother used to make rum cake! An old Southern recipe. Didn’t touch a drop of liquor—great grandmother was a Temperance advocate—but she could knock you on your keester with her desserts, haahaahhaa!!!”

Elycia’s rum cake was an ‘off the menu’ specialty and she carded everyone she served it to. Jake had whomped it up with some leftover 151 proof dark rum he’d won at one of the strip poker games hosted after hours by Rebecca Catalina. Old Chris Mustang liked the cake so much she served it in her restaurant, frequently calling a cab for anyone who had seconds. It was dangerous to smoke or light candles on the table because the fumes could go up like an Ishballan village during the war. Donal had a weakness for sweets, made worse by a wife that nagged him to cut back. With luck, Donal would require a designated driver to get him home…and that designated driver had slipped Ruby her office key. “Tell them I forgot my wallet—I left it in my top drawer,” Gracia had whispered into the phone. “Donal’s office is next to mine. He keeps all the story notes and research in the tray on his desk. Grab the book and get it to Ed---we’ve got to get it back by Saturday morning before Donal sobers up and goes back for it.”  
###

“I could fuckin’ kiss you, Ruby!”  
“Not unless you’ve had all your shots,” Ruby shuddered, passing the parcel to Edward. “How about a raise, skinflint?”  
“For this??” Ed scribbled a note on a piece of paper and handed her his old pocket watch. “Take this out of my retirement fund and go buy yourself a sense of humor.”  
She stared at the figure. She blinked. “I’m gone before you change your mind,” she muttered, leaving Edward alone with galley proofs of “Vice and Fire”  
Ed grabbed the phone. “SHESKA!!! Need you—on the double!”

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	7. "SPACE TO BREATHE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheska’s going crazy and Ed’s to blame, while Roy wrestles with the full fury of his own considerable temper and its consequences. Havoc already has the woman of his dreams—but what about the woman of his fantasies? Mrs. Bradley fears Roy’s control over Selim’s destiny….and Ed’s son and daughter prove that stirring up trouble is truly genetic.

Fortune-telling was rubbish as far as Roy was concerned—however when Havoc pulled the car up to the back entrance of Rose Hill the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Was that stubborn twig of hair that sprouted above Ed’s forehead some sort of antenna, specifically tuned to broadcast ill omens? His lover had been in a reasonably mellow mood this morning, following a night that involved quite a lot of mattress-bending athletics that left both of them with stiff necks and slightly bruised lips—and mutual smiles.   
Years of practice had taught him to slam on the mental brakes before stepping into a potentially stressful situation. He diverted his mind to thoughts of the honeymoon to be planned, preferably fifty kilometers away from the press and his personal handlers. A rustic cabin somewhere sounded good to him. In his mind he caught hold of a pleasant image of sitting on the front steps of a cabin at dusk, dinner sizzling on a spit and Ed beside him, smelling of wood smoke and hair wet from skinny dipping with Roy in a creek and his own comforting musk-metal scent. He held that image tightly, took a slow breath and then stepped inside to greet the pandemonium.

“EDWARD!!!” Sheska was waving her arms wildly, glasses at half-mast on the end of her nose. “Please! You’re vulturing me!”  
“I gotta know what it says!”  
“She’s trying to read it, idiot!” Ruby shouted. “Back off—she can’t even breath with you swarming over her like a blowfly—“  
“She’s taking too long—“  
“—and it’s going to take her forever if you don’t shut up, back off, and leave her the hell alone—“  
“Edward.” The voice was low, soft and authoritative. “In my office. It’s important.”  
Edward’s eyes were blazing. “Not as much as this book!”  
“What book?”  
“This!” Ed snatched at the brown paper bound galley proof volume, trying to yank it away from Sheska, who hugged it close to her meager bosom. ”This! This piece of crap that’s going to ruin your life!”  
“Edward….stop.” The dark eyes held him. “I must talk with you. Now. Please.” He nodded towards his office. “I’ll be right there.” They locked eyes for several uncomfortable moments but there was no challenge in Roy’s gaze. Uneasy, Ed dropped his eyes and sighed. “Okay,” he finally sighed. “I’ll….whatever…”  
As soon as he was gone, Roy laid his hand on Sheska’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about that. Is this the biography everybody is getting so perturbed about?” She nodded, looking miserable, making apologetic noises about not having read and memorized the book yet—she’d had it less than half an hour. Roy laid his finger to his lips and shushed her gently. Down on one knee, they were on eye level. “Sheska….” His voice was very soft, very kind. She hadn’t noticed before how lovely his eyes were—so dark and liquid and thickly lashed…and his low voice was like velvet against her spine. “I’m so sorry about all this. Edward is concerned—and maybe there’s nothing in that rubbish to be concerned about. I’m a public figure. I’ve been shot at with bullets—and hit a time or two. Words aren’t likely to do me much harm, but Edward gets so protective about his friends and family..” The hand on her shoulder seemed to grow warmer by the moment. “Sheska…nobody I know has a talent like yours. Eidetic memory is so rare. Nobody knows better than me what you’ve done for this country—especially when General Hughes needed you the most. Now,” he turned his smile upon Ruby, “I want Chef Ramsay to make you an amazing meal and set you up in the conservatory—an indoor picnic, if you like. Relax and enjoy yourselves, and when you’re rested and ready….would you mind reading this…trash…so we know what this….person…knows…and then hopefully we can forget this? I’ll manage Edward and keep him out of your hair. Will you help me, please?”  
Ruby, immune to the patented Mustang Charm® , wisely refrained from making vomiting noises, Sheska, caught in her superior’s spell, swallowed hard and nodded. “Wonderful….and Sheska?”  
“S-sir?”  
“I hope you and your mother like the Lake Region. It’s warm, and you mustn’t forget your swimsuit when I send the two of you on holiday over Solstice. Ruby? Please ring for Sebastian. Give your picnic order to him and Ramsay will have you set up properly. Oh, and have him send up a couple of beers and a tray of sandwiches to my office.” He nodded and disappeared through the office doors.   
“Manipulative bastard,” Ruby groused.  
“With amaziiiiiiing eyes,” Sheska qualified, looking slightly bedazzled.

###  
He was a good boy. A good boy, the best in the world. She knew it in her heart, and for the last twenty years she gave thanks for his sweet soul and gentle spirit from the moment a sorrowful Edward Elric brought her the oh-so-tiny and helpless infant, curled up on the folds of Edward’s tattered red coat.   
Grumman let her keep him. Let her? In lucid moments she balked at that thought a little. After all, admittedly, he wasn’t her flesh—or King’s, for that matter. His making was something she didn’t dwell upon. When King chose her and brought this child to her as a family orphan she had loved him from the very first. “What an unusual name!” she exclaimed, smiling down at the beautiful little boy. “Is it a family name, dear?”  
“I don’t believe so,” King had told her. “Let’s look it up in a baby book, shall we?”  
It took them awhile but eventually King had an answer for her. “Selim means ‘peace’, according some of the ancient texts about Xerxes. Imagine—a name so very ancient. I wonder where they discovered it. Well,” he patted her arm fondly, “he’s certainly brought peace and happiness to us, my dear, wherever the name came from.”  
The truth, when it was finally revealed to her, was almost impossible to bear. Her husband was dead—had given an order to kill everyone except Mustang alone. Her King had possibly given an order to terminate her life…and yet she loved him, loved him as she had loved no other person save only the beautiful son he had brought to her. Had she really known the man who wooed her so ardently and won her heart all those years ago? Had he truly known what kind of creature he had brought into their home or had King been as innocent as she had been?  
In the end, she didn’t know and it didn’t truly matter. This boy was the most precious joy of her life, even if his mind had not developed as his body had. He would be her little boy forever and ever and nobody would ever separate them…  
…unless the Fuhrer chose to destroy him.  
That was the pact she had agreed to with Grumman. She could love Selim, shelter him, raise him as her own—even give him the legal name ‘Selim Bradley’. Whether or not she could keep him forever would be dependent on whether or not Selim became Pride again. Should those memories stir, the Fuhrer had no choice but to take her precious son away and…and…  
“I won’t think about that,” she told herself. “He’s a very, very good boy.”  
She had her good days and days when she would forget to turn the gas burner off the stove. Selim diligently followed behind, turning off the water taps, the stove burners, finding where she left her glasses or her daily medications. He heated her canned soups and could make a sandwich for her without cutting himself when she wasn’t quite up to cooking their meals or keeping house for them.  
But she was growing older and forgetful and in her lucid moments she was heartsick to think who would care for her wonderful little boy when she could no longer take care of herself. It saddened her to think that she could not make that determination herself. It would be made by the kindly, elegant man who was coming to see them at teatime tomorrow—the man who ruled Amestris in King’s stead: Roy Mustang.  
###

Before Ed could speak, Roy lifted his hand. “Fire minutes. Give me five minutes to say what I need to say and then you can yell as much as you want.”  
Ed was about to blurt out an argument. Wisely, he bit it back and nodded. “Go ahead.”  
Roy’s hands rested heavily on his shoulders. “Right now…right now…I need to keep calm. The odds are that there is nothing in that book that hasn’t either come out or been speculated before by someone else. I know who this author is. I know what she did to Grumman’s career. I know what she tried to do to the Armstrongs. We won’t know until Sheska is done. She’s the right person to help us and I’m going to make sure she’s rewarded AND well paid for this. She needs time and quiet to do what she does best—and even though I know you’re worried, we both need to leave her in peace until she’s read it and made notes. I told her to have dinner and to take her time and do this accurately.  
“Now…if you think I don’t have a clue what the implications could be over this piece of trash, you’re wrong. I do. Depending on who her sources are there could be material in that book that could hurt others—I’m not concerned about what she says about me personally. If she hurts others or risks national security, I’m going to get angry. You’ve seen me when I’m really angry. You know that’s not a good thing. If anything---any details—about the Promised Day or Father or Bradley’s involvement is in there…I am going to have to keep my temper in check. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Lose. My. Temper. Not again.” His words were spoken with great care and articulation, and the implications behind those words were so strong that even Edward couldn’t miss them. “I do not want Colonel Hawkeye to have to fulfill her obligation to hold me accountable for my actions. You are aware of the threats she made to herself if she were called to shoot me as directed. We are not playing that scene a second time. And so,” his arms slid around Edward’s shoulders and drew him close, “I am asking you to help me to stay calm. Right now, this is what I need.” Roy maneuvered his lover into a very tight embrace, his chin resting on the younger man’s shoulder, his lips against Edward’s ear. “As much as I love to fuck…and you know I love to fuck…that’s not what I need right now. Just…be here. I need space to breathe before we find out what we’re dealing with. You okay with that?”  
“…..yeah…” Edward studied his lover for several moments then led him over to the sofa. “C’mere.” He fitted himself into his favorite corner and pulled Roy down beside him. “Turn around.” He helped Roy out of his jacket and began digging his fingers into tight muscles. “Damn…that’s harder than your dick. Take a breath.” Lifting his knee he positioned it between Roy’s shoulder blades and pulled his lover slowly back. There was a series of loud popping noises. “Teacher used to do this to Sig all the time—showed me how to do it. Better?”  
“Yeah. Thanks.” The fingers kneaded and prodded and then the hands stroked until Roy sighed heavily and leaned back against Edward’s chest, the younger man’s arms wrapped around him, his head resting against Ed’s cheek.  
A while later Sebastian brought in an enormous sandwich constructed of a whole loaf of crusty bread, paved with cold cuts and cheeses and vegetables. It was accompanied by a big basket of crisp fried potatoes and a bucket of ice filled with long necked beers. “Notice he left the onions off,” Roy smirked.   
“And why is there a crock of butter next to the mustard?” Ed wanted to know.  
“Because he’s put up with us for fifteen years and knows us too damn well.”  
Ed looked thoughtful. “You don’t think Sebastian would---“  
“---talk to Winchell? Absolutely not. And if he suspected anyone else in the house had, he’d have come to me…or handled it himself. He does keep a coil of garroting wire in his pocket, you know.” Ed shuddered. It was sometimes hard to reconcile the stately major domo who ran the house with quiet efficiency with his deadly skills as a Black Ops security agent. Any intruder that managed to breach the security at Rose Hill would be better off being shot by a guard than to fall into Sebastian’s gloved hands. “And if we start getting paranoid and looking for moles we’ll drive each other and everyone around us out of their minds.”

They demolished the gargantuan sandwich and had curled up with a couple of good books, eventually dozing off. During that time Maes came in, whistling off key, filthy and smiling from his workshop. Spying Sheska at her desk, the younger Elric gave her a playful wolf whistle. “So this is where they’re hiding all the beautiful women! I need to come home early more often!”  
His cheery smile evaporated when he saw the look on her face. “Hey…what’s wrong?” he asked gently, perching on the corner of her desk. “Is Dad being an asshole again or something?”  
Sheska shook her head sadly and held up the book. Maes drew back comically and made one of those gestures that old Drachman babushkas made to ward off evil. “The only thing Kelley Winchell’s books are good for,” he stated firmly, “is for driving rats out of the pantry—they are the ultimate repellant. Nina won’t touch her books without rubber gloves. I don’t blame her.” He peered at the title and made a face. “So…going after Uncle Roy—probably Dad and Uncle Maes too. If Uncle Alphonse hadn’t raised me to be a gentleman I could make a few observations on her morals---assuming she has any.”  
“She hasn’t,” Sheska told him. “Maes, this is so bad…so bad…”  
Edward’s son reached for the book, holding it between his fingers as if it had been dipped in raw sewage. “Who publishes this crap?” He examined the book’s spine much as he might have examined a smear of dog shit on his boot. ‘Dickon and Howe and Sons’ Hmmm….seem to remember them. Ol’ Dick’em And How, Son, we call ‘em. They publish lots of cheap paperback man-on-man wankables one finds in the lavatories in the boy’s dorms.” He winked again at the horrifed expression on Sheska’s face. “Not that I would know anything at all about wanking, mind you.” He flipped through a few pages. “Well, no naked pictures. That’s a relief. Uncle Roy would probably worry that the keyhole camera used to take naughty snaps of him and Dad might add five pounds to his boyish figure. Of course, that depends where those five pounds are added, I suppose…”  
“Maes, be serious! This is terrible---the things she’s got in there about the President—“  
Maes lifted his hand to quell her outburst. “Okay, okay. So it’s shit between dustcovers and it’s probably got stuff that shouldn’t see the light of day. Am I right? Have you talked to Dad and Uncle Roy yet?”  
“Not yet.”  
“Okay. Suppose you give me the skinny first. Warts and all. “  
“—but—“  
Golden eyes flashed with the same gleeful malice she’d seen long ago in his father’s own eyes. “Nobody messes with my family. I don’t get mad…I get even.”

 

###  
Five little words.   
Amazing that a man could be enslaved, his mind turned to goo, his loins to iron and his will to putty with five little words.  
Alphonse was, if anything, a bigger babe magnet than Mustang, possibly even more than King Claudio of Aerugo. The lace on women’s panties had been known to ignite whenever Al tossed them his sincere, boyish grin.   
He smiled at Gladys. Listened to her. Made useful suggestions. Bought her a lovely dinner and even knew what wine she liked—wine, not hard liquor. At dinner she found him charming and smiled and nodded and listened to him. She would be good, she promised, and make this gala a success.  
Then Alphonse went to the men’s room and Gladys Turlough enslaved Jean Havoc with five little words:  
“Can I have a cigarette?”  
With trembling hands, he put two between his lips, grateful that he didn’t accidentally shove them both up his nose. Lighting them both, he passed one to her. She took a deep drag and then blew out a stream of smoke from pursed lips he’d fantasized around his cock earlier.   
“I like Alphonse,” she confided. “I do. I really do…but…” She leaned in close. “I just love a man in uniform.” Her fingers slid under the table and brushed his thigh. “Especially a big strong country boy who knows how to treat a lady.”

A few hours later, after he’d volunteered to walk her home, she proved that she knew how to treat a man.  
Baby pink lipstick on his boxers was only the start. She did things to him that were probably illegal in some countries. Things that defied the laws of man and gods and physics. She licked places he didn’t think he could pay a woman to lick and when she showed him pictures of herself romping naked with another woman, doing astonishing things to one another with an empty champagne bottle, she told him, “that was fun…but you’re more my size, Country Boy.”  
It was a quarter past three when he slipped in the front door, closing it gently behind him. He reeked of sex and wine and sweat and if Riza gave him a kiss she’d know exactly where his mouth had been half the night. Thankfully she didn’t wake up.   
He loved her. He really, really loved Riza, but—  
She would only let go of her reserve so far…so far and no further. And besides,’ he told himself, he was never sure if she was making love to him or pretending he was someone else, someone she flat out wasn’t going to have.  
So…maybe he couldn’t justify it…but damn it was good to be wanted, craved, coaxed and teased. And she shaved it…and showed it off to him, demonstrating exactly where she wanted his tongue. If he’d even suggested Riza do such a thing she’d have shoved the barrel of her service revolver up his ass and emptied the clip.  
Or would she….??  
###  
Nina was tired when she came in. Her brother was foraging in the kitchen for snacks when she greeted him on her way in search of a cup of chamomile and spearmint tea to help her rest. “How’s Sheska doing with the book?”  
“She’s done—and done in. I told Sebastian to set her up in the guest room. She’s earned a good night’s sleep.”  
Nina tilted her head and studied her brother’s expression. “Not good, I take it?”  
“Dad’s gonna crap live kittens—and Uncle Roy---well, he’s gonna tell us it doesn’t matter until he finds out some of the stuff in there. And y’know, the really bad part is she’s got it all wrong.”  
“Well of course she got it wrong, you numbskull! That…that…twat…is doing a hatchet job on our stepdad. I’m not sure I can read it without sedation, myself.”  
“Nobody picks on your ‘Wroy’” her brother teased gently. “And nobody messes with Dad—or Uncle Al…or Aunt Riza—or even Grandpa Hohenheim.”  
“You have a plan, I take it?”  
He tugged on his ponytail. “I’m open to suggestions.”  
“You want to sleep on it, or should I make some coffee and grab my notebook?”

It was nearly 4am when Maes noticed the light in the office. There was faint snoring from the other side of the door.  
Tiptoing in, he saw his father and stepfather, snoring softly in each other’s arms on the sofa. Neither one had taken off his reading glasses and the books were still in their hands.  
He carefully folded up both pairs of spectacles and placed them beside the bookmarked texts. He smiled fondly at the pair. I’m a lucky feller he told himself. Cared for by these two. About damn time I pay some of that back….  
###  
“I come about the janitor job?”  
The young man—a student, it looked like, wore a neat cap over his long chestnut hair and there was a slight greenish tint to his wire-rimmed glasses. He was pointing at the sign in the window of Dickon and Howe and Sons Publishing that read NOW HIRING CLEANING STAFF—NIGHT SHIFT WANTED. “Eh….need something to make ends meet between classes, son?”  
“Aye, sir,” the boy nodded, tugging his cap and smiling. He had a pleasant face and a backwoods provincial Southern accent. “Used t’mop up my Grandad’s butcher shop. Powerful lot of cleaning, that was. An’ I’m strong. Payin’ my own way through school. Workin’ afternoons sweeping and moppin’ the classrooms at the Hohenheim.” He flashed a winning grin. “Give me a chance, eh?”  
The manager looked him up and down. Good broad shoulders, and honest calluses on his hands. His clothes were plain but neat and clean and the eyes behind those tinted lenses were wide and sincere. “Fair enough, son. What’s your name?”  
“Call me Curtis. Urey Curtis. Named for both my granddads.”  
“Right, then, Curtis. Be back at nine, sharp. Tea break at midnight. Lock up at two.”  
“Will do, sir—and I give you my word,” he laid his hand over his breast pocket where his supply of alchemical chalk was stashed, “I’ll do you such a good job cleanin’ up you won’t know the place when I’m done!” He was touching his cap and backing out the door when he accidentally collided with a slender, bookish-looking girl whose brown hair was pinned up in a knot on her head.   
“This where they’s hiring?   
“Yeh, might do. Only they just took me on!” he snapped his braces proudly.   
“Right, but you don’t seem the type to put a high polish on things, son.” She offered her hand to the manager. “I’m Chris,” she told him bluntly. “Chris Renback. I’m a Rush Valley girl and used to polish up the automail in my stepdad’s shop. You want that lobby to shine like sun on steel, I’m your girl—and I work nights if you need me.” A piece of chalk dropped out of her skirt pockets. “I work part time in the café on campus—I was chalking out the menu board before I got here. Well??” Her dark eyebrows arched sharply. “You going to take me on or not?”  
Her penetrating green stare unnerved the manager. “Yes…yes, Miss Renback. You and Curtis here can start tonight at nine.”  
Maes and Nina Elric shook hands. “I suppose so—as long as this brute stays out of my way when I’ve got mopping to do.”  
“Awww, not to worry, Miss Christmas. I’m sure after ‘while we’ll get on like brother and sister!”

….TO BE CONTINUED…


	8. "A BOOT UP YOUR GEARS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unknown opponent is preparing to challenge Roy for the Presidency of Amestris—meanwhile Ed’s kids are using alchemy and espionage to stall the printing of “Fire And Vice”, Breda has an all-star headache on his hands and Roy has a heart to heart with Bradley’s widow about the fate of Selim

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 8: A BOOT UP YOUR GEARS  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

In the end Roy made no comment at all. He thanked Sheska sincerely for her hard and dedicated work, nodded to his furious lover and anxious children and walked quietly out of the office, out the back door and disappeared. Sheska stuttered out her apologies. Ed told her simply she had nothing to beg pardon for.   
“It could be worse,” Maes suggested. “A lot worse.” Ed would have snapped out an angry retort, but he knew that his son hadn’t seen what he himself had seen—including what Roy could not have seen himself, having been blinded by Truth at the time. It was clear to Maes and Nina that their father was deeply upset and Maes bit off his impulse to start babbling and protesting. If he learned nothing else from Nana ‘Zumi it was to know when to shut the hell up and when to speak up, at least around their hot-tempered father and mother. Nina shook her head, looking understandably agitated.  
Finally, Edward laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s much she doesn’t know—and that ‘s good. There’s no detail about the battle with Father, since any survivors were military and debriefed before leaving the field. But the information about the national array, the undead army and the killing of Bradley…she’s linking it all back to Roy, and she’s doing it so well she had to get help from someone.”  
“Or someone’s records, maybe?” Maes impatiently yanked at the elastic that held his hair until it tumbled loosely around his shoulders. “That Old Guard geezer who tried to kill me when I was a little snot. “  
“Edison,” Nina echoed.  
Sheska rubbed tired eyes behind her heavy lenses. “Could it have been anyone else, Ed? And how did she get a copy of his journal if he’s dead? Didn’t Intelligence confiscate all his stuff when he was arrested?”  
Ed scowled. “I don’t know. I’ll have Hawkeye find out. In the meantime—“ He turned his eyes towards the door his lover had just exited through. “We better give Roy some time to get hold of himself. At least we haven’t heard any explosions.”  
“Yet,” Sheska amended.  
“Yeah. I’m gonna give him some space, let him cool down and then—“  
“We got night jobs at Dickon and Howe.” Nina blurted out.  
Maes rolled his eyes. “Ohhh, tell the fucking world, Nitwit!”  
Ed’s head jerked towards his son, mouth dropping open. “You WHAT??”  
Maes’ hands shot up as if to shield himself from an incoming missile. “We haven’t done anything. I…I mean, I heard they were hiring cleaning people and—“  
“—we dressed up and gave them false identities. We got a rinse-out tint for Maes’ hair from Gracia and some colored eyeglass lenses to hide his eyes—“  
“—oh, and I’m getting some brand new corneal lenses from Dr. Feinbloom—Dad, they are amazing! They aren’t glass—we’ve got this new polymer called polymethyl methacrylate and they don’t even have to cover the whole eye surface! Mine won’t have correction, but he could make some so you—“  
“—Tinker, you’re waffling again—“  
“—well, he might want to give up his specs if these work out—“  
—and I made myself look pretty grim and dowdy—and—“  
“—we got taken on the cleaning crew. We start tonight…sir.” Sheska scooted her chair back several feet. If Maes was addressing his father as ‘sir’ the boy already knew himself to be neck deep in serious trouble.   
Nina’s green eyes were glistening. “Daddy, it’s not like we were planning to blow the place up.” She glared at her brother. “I wasn’t, anyway. Just to reconnoiter, see what we can find out. Nothing more illegal,” her finger tapped the galley proof, “than Ruby borrowing a review copy that shouldn’t have left somebody’s office. Daddy, we can’t let this…trollop—“  
“—oh, call her a cunt and be done with it,” Maes snapped.   
“TINKER! Language!” Nina looked offended. “This…person…we don’t want her to undo all the good that Poppy’s done. “If we can get inside that office---Daddy, it…it’s something you would have done, right?”  
“And maybe we can find a way to buy us some time to come up with a better solution?” Maes offered. “Some way to…I don’t know… stop her from publishing it…or maybe get her to edit it for the sake of national security?”  
Sheska nodded eagerly. “It does sound like something you and Al would have done, Ed.”  
‘Yeah,” Ed looked bitter. “And we all know how fuckin’ great my judgment is. Let’s see---transmuted my mother, stuck my brother’s soul in a suit of armor—gee, the list goes on and on and on---“  
“---you raised us. We’ve turned out rather well.” Nina glanced at her older brother. “Mostly.”  
“And you know,” Maes added, “if you hadn’t followed your gut instincts, every damn man and woman and child in this country would still be dead---and Uncle Al would still be in the Gateway. So stop beating yourself up.”  
Ed studies the two earnest expressions that confronted him. For all their mad schemes and collaborations, his children had a remarkable amount of common sense—something they sure as hell didn’t inherit from their impulsive biological parents. Izumi and Pinako had a hand in that, to be sure, but it was Roy who taught them to think and plan. If they had already gone this far, he hoped, they wouldn’t do anything that might get them killed or thrown in jail. “All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t like it worth a damn, but maybe some good can come out of it. But,” his frown deepened, “ if I even think you’ve done something that hurts anybody---“  
‘Dad!” Maes looked shocked.  
“The very idea!” his daughter huffed. “We’re not even planning to damage property—“  
“—much,” Maes corrected. “I mean…hell, I’m not above putting the ol’ boot up the gears that might slow or halt production until they figure out a technical problem---nothing spectacular; y’know. “  
Ed looked confused. “Boot up the gears?”  
Nina looked smug. “In Aerugo there was a labor revolt in the silk mills back in the 1500’s.  
The workers weren’t happy that the new technology might take away their livelihood so they threw their boots—their saboti—into the wooden gears to break the cogs and stop the weaving machines. They coined a term for it—“  
Maes was grinning now. “Yeah. Sabotage.”  
Their father was silent for a very long time. “Elrics,” he finally murmured, “ aren’t known for their bright ideas, son. Maybe you should stay out of this.” His son and daughter didn’t answer. After a time he rubbed his face wearily. “But you won’t. How could you? You’re like me. Too goddamned much like me, the pair of you.” He rose slowly, shaking his head. “If anyone gets hurt—in any way---I won’t bail you out. This is your decision--you’re going to have to live with it. And we Elrics,” he added over his shoulder as he walked out of the office, “ live a very, very long time.”  
###  
Breda and his team of image crafting strategists ringed a table piled high with memos, notes, half-chewed pencils, stale donuts and half-empty coffee cups. He scrubbed at his rusty brush cut and ruefully mused that the fact that the silver hairs that were out-numbering the ginger these days was due in a large part to the individuals listed on the program in front of him:  
Donal Samuelson, Master of Ceremonies. Donal knew everybody who was anybody. Hosted Midday Amestris weekdays on Radio Capital, penned a column syndicated by the Times in all five areas, and was now doing feature interviews with the politicos and celebrities of the day for the Radio Capital weekend program Monitor and on the nightly news digest show Eye on Amestris. Looked good in a tux, had a huge fan base and could be counted upon to keep things lively and entertaining without crossing the line into the sort of crass nudge-and-wink sort of roasting that Mustang wanted to avoid. “On the down side,” Breda admitted to Havoc, “the man’s in his drink so much he’s grown gills, so coffee in the green room and have the stagehands check for liquor stashes.” Havoc agreed to keep Samuelson on point and off the sauce.  
Maestro Leopold Williams, conductor of the Central Symphony and Chorus. Affectionately referred to as ‘the old fossil’, Williams was a notorious martinet who was rumored to have pressured one high strung soprano to jump off the roof of the music conservatory with his scathing evaluation of her voice. “I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole,” Nina Elric had said, having narrowly survived a summer session of youth orchestra under his baton. “I would,” her brother had answered tartly, “ but only if it had a very sharp point on the end.” The Hohenheim Institute Youth Orchestra would perform magnificently, even if they might need months of therapy afterwards. His composition for Mustang’s inauguration, Fanfare for the Common Amestrian, was magnificent and even tone deaf Havoc said it sent chills up his spine. The piece would be reprised with full orchestra and children’s choir and as far as the Boss was concerned would be the high mark of the event.   
“Not the most agreeable person you may have dealt with,” Falman observed. “I’ll volunteer to assist the Maestro. Hopefully we won’t encounter any unpleasantness.”  
Duke Brubeck, jazz pianist. One of Mustang’s personal favorites, and one of the most critically acclaimed artists of their day. Mustang tended to prefer the more complex, sophisticated forms of popular music. High brow intellectual who never took his sunglasses off and whose rambling diatribes were possibly fueled by some rather peculiar smelling tobacco that he imported from Xing that tended to make him ravenous and incoherent after a few pipefulls. “I’ll work with him,” Fuery offered. “Maybe I can get him to sign one of his records for me.”  
The Altoid Sisters. Radio stars Margi, Maci, and Mazi Altoid sang popular songs in close harmony, sported upswept hairdos and high heels. They had marvelous voices but got a little touchy about propriety, being strict Letoists and having been carefully shepherded through their recording and radio career by their father Lloyd. Mr. Altoid’s over-protectiveness of his three virgin daughters went to gun-toting extremes even Hughes would have found excessive. “I’m sure there won’t be any problems,” Maria Ross assured them. “I’ll meet with Mr. Altoid tomorrow and assure him that his daughters won’t be exposed to any undesirable company, or anyone,” here she glanced pointedly at Alphonse,” likely to seduce them.”  
Alphonse sat up, looking hurt. “Likely to seduce them?? Ohh, I like that!” he snapped.  
“I’ll just bet you would, you letch!” she shot back. “That’s why you’re with Gladys Turlough. You can’t break something that’s already broken—if you catch my drift! And you can also keep your paws off the girls from Ballet Vaginanova—“  
“That’s Vaganova,” Alphonse corrected. “Not Vaginanova. Vaginanova is lesbian political satire performance art troupe out of Stoltovgrad that—“  
“Back on track, people!” Breda clapped his hands. “So, we’ve got the symphony and chorus, Brubeck’s jazz quintet, the ballet, the Altoid sisters, Professor Sherman Lehrer—“  
“You’ve invited him??” Havoc blinked in surprise. “Have you actually heard any of the songs he’s sung about the Boss? Some of them are outrageous!”  
“That’s the point,” Breda explained patiently. “He’s a full fledged professor at the Hohenheim who does political satire and song parodies. After all the songs he’s targeted about Mustang, inviting him is proof that Roy Mustang can laugh at himself.”  
“Did you hear his song about Mustang during the war--‘Hold My Purse While I Save The World”?” Havoc stubbed out his cigarette. “ I swear, if the Prof had written something like that about Bradley, he’d have cut off Lehrer’s nuts, transmuted them into two chimeras and let them eat the Prof’s asshole out!”   
“Roy’s agreed to it,” Alphonse pointed out, “so we can’t un-invite him. So that leaves us with Gladys Turlough.”  
Havoc’s ears turned crimson at the mention of her name. “She’s great!” he blurted out with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. “I—I mean, she’s a really great addition to the show.”  
Breda caught Alphonse’s eye. “Any trouble with her, Al?”  
Havoc wasn’t fooling Alphonse, who could detect female pheromones percolating a kilometer away. Gladys Turlough oozed musk whenever Havoc was around and while it wasn’t his place to advise another man to keep it in his pants Alphonse didn’t like to think about what this would do to Hawkeye when she finally got wind of this little affair. He genuinely cared for both Riza and Jean and the last thing he wanted was to see them break up. “No trouble at all,” he admitted. “I’ve seen the gown she’s planning to wear—it’s within the bounds of public decency, and she sings pretty well. Oh, by the way, she says that there’s going to be an executive from PanAmestris Studios in the audience at the gala. He’s negotiating with her to do a historical drama—her first serious film, so she’s pretty excited. She’s got too much riding on this to misbehave.”   
Breda looked serious. “I’m counting on you, Alphonse. Keep her out of trouble.” He looked exhausted. “We gotta keep Donal off the booze, Brubeck off the—the—well, whatever the hell it is he’s smoking, keep the Maestro from traumatizing the kids in the orchestra, keep the ballerinas in their tutus and the Altoids intact---and pray to whatever that Professor Sherman doesn’t rip out another song like the one about ‘millitary doggie-style’ like he did after the Press Corps gala two years ago. Now if Miss Turlough can keep her knockers moored inside her dress and her hemline below her ears….we’ll have a show. Meeting adjourned!”  
###

She fretted and fussed over forgetting to put the cream cheese on the dainty cucumber sandwiches she offered him. She spilled her tea, apologized profusely for the sweet biscuits being slightly burned on the bottom. “Selim made them very nicely. He just forgets to check the oven when the bell goes off,” she explained.  
Roy nodded graciously, assuring them both that everything was fine. “The biscuits are very good, Selim. And you made them yourself?”  
The young man nodded eagerly. “I used measuring cups and everything,” he told the President gravely. “I didn’t spill. I didn’t make a mess at all. But I let them cook too long.”  
“Next time you might put the timer in your pocket so you can hear it ring,” Roy suggested kindly and Selim beamed at him. “And if you are learning to cook I believe I have my daughter’s cook book in the kitchen at Rose Hill. The recipes are very easy and simple and there are lots of pictures. I’m sure she would be glad to lend it to you and you will be able to make all sorts of nice things for your mother’s tea. Would you like that?”  
Selim turned excited eyes to his mother, who nodded her permission. “You must take very good care of the book, son,” she told him. “And you can write a thank you note to Miss Nina for letting you use it. “  
“I will! Oh, I will!” The expression his face was pathetic in its gratitude. Inwardly, Roy was dismayed. It was good that Selim was learning new skills, but it was clear Mrs. Bradley was having a difficult time caring for the house, let alone her son. He sipped his tea, bitter from over-brewing, and chose his words very carefully. “Selim, your mother tells me you like to read to her. I think she would really enjoy a story—and I would too. Would you like to get one of your books?”  
Waiting again for permission, Selim happily dashed down the hall, leaving his adopted mother anxiously twisting her linen napkin in hands that trembled with more than age.  
“Don’t kill my son. Please…I’m begging you!” She blurted out the words and was unable to suppress the sob that followed them. “He’s everything—he’s all I’ve got left.”   
That wasn’t strictly true. She had King Bradley’s generous pension. She could have had servants at no hardship but had dismissed them, preferring to care for the house and her son by herself. Roy admired her self-sufficiency, but it impaired her ability to care for herself and her son now that age was taking its toll on her mind.   
Roy put down his cup. “Mrs. Bradley, I’m not here as your son’s executioner. The only—the only—conditions that might warrant…measures…would be if Pride reasserted itself through him—in which event he would not only be a danger to himself and to you but to all of mankind. And I have been observing him since before Fuhrer Grumman retired and I have as yet to see any indications that Pride is returning. What I observe,” he leaned forward for emphasis, “is a young man who is trying very hard to take care of his mother---and a mother who has not let her son’s disadvantages prevent him from living a useful life.” He took her hand gently. It was chilled with fear. “The only pride that is at issue here is your own, Madame. It is time you agreed to let someone help you. Someone who can take over the cooking and cleaning and help you manage Selim.”  
She looked genuinely alarmed. “I couldn’t! No—there’s nobody I could trust---“  
“—even if I personally vouch for them? Someone whom I trusted with the safety of my own children?”  
That made her pause. “This…this is someone you know?”  
Roy nodded. “A boy who once took a bullet to save the life of my son. Out of gratitude I arranged work for him so he could support his sick father. He began running odd jobs and eventually came to Rose Hill to train under my butler and manservant Sebastian. This,” he gestured around him, “is too much of a house for you to manage now. You never should have tried on your own. And there’s no sense uprooting you and Selim to a smaller home. Collins has been serving in our household for the past two years as concierge—which means he not only has been trained to manage a household efficiently but under Sebastian he has been cross trained in security. Above all,” Roy added, glancing over his shoulder to see if Selim had returned, “he is nothing if not discreet. He came up the hard way in the streets. He’s done well and I have no qualms about putting him at your disposal. In fact, it would be one less thing to worry about.” A charming, boyish smile played briefly across his face. “You are a very brave and compassionate lady, Mrs. Bradley, and your country owes you much. I would consider it an honor to assign David Collins to your service. Are we agreed?”  
David Collins. They called him Dogshit Davy once upon a time, before Chris Mustang caught him poking at a dead man with a stick in the alley behind her restaurant. On the day that Edison took Elycia hostage it was Davy Collins who pulled Maes out of the line of fire when the madman tried to kill him. Roy had given him employment and he’d turned out well---and utterly loyal to Roy and the Elrics. Having Collins at close range, observing Selim, would be one less thing for Roy to worry about. And thanks to the years of polish under Sebastian’s tutelage Collins could observe and report and serve with gracious effortlessness. Mrs. Bradley and Selim would be under surveillance, Collins would gain experience and the question about what to do with the last surviving homunculus could be held off for a while yet.  
After all, Roy thought grimly as Selim began to slowly read them “The Seven Xingese Brothers”, I have enough blood on my hands—enough to last a lifetime.  
###  
‘Tell me, have you ever hunted a bear?” A measure of best brandy splashed in a simple soldier’s tin cup. “Hunting bear and plotting a political strategy are much the same. You begin, if you have any sense, observing the behavior of the cub. Is it cowardly? Does it risk danger? Does it cower when its mother cuffs it? Can it fend for itself? Or does it turn predator and steal the catch of its brothers?”  
“I’m not sure I follow you…”  
“Oh, I think you do. Watch the cub. Watch it reach adulthood. Learn its habitats and its habits. Observe it through the seasons.”  
“That would take years.”  
“It does take years. Sometimes it takes the best part of a lifetime. At first it will catch your scent on the wind, but as the years pass it takes your scent for granted. You become an afterthought. And that’s when you strike.”  
“And how long have you been watching Roy Mustang?”  
“Long enough. He’s stepped outside his own hunting habitat and he’s stretched himself very, very thin. Now,” the glass lifted in salute to the man currently holding the presidency, “let us see if he’s up for one last battle. Let’s see if he’s willing to fight to sit behind that grand desk of his a while longer.” The companions swallowed after clinking their cups together. “Let the hunt begin.”  
###  
“Bit o’ nasty gunge under there, see those vats, mates?” The tall feller with the cloth cap dunked his mop in to the filthy water and wrung it out. “ Must be a leak in that ink vat. I’ll get down there---oy, Jamie! Gimme a fresh pail full, will ya? No sense makin’ it worse.”  
As soon as the other mop boy had gone to rinse out the bucket, Maes whipped out his chalk and the work gloves with the arrays embroidered inside. “Carbon…water…ethyl alcohol, lac resin,” he whispered under his breath. “Let’s see what we can make of this, hmmm?” There was a brief flash of bluish light, and by the time Jamie got back all he could see was a very grimy “Curtis” scrubbing dutifully at the dried crusted stains, dusty from head to toe.  
Meanwhile the typeset plates for “Fire and Vice” were stacked vertically on several pallets in the warehouse near the supply room. Nina slipped into the shadows,, a stick of chalk clutched in her sweaty fingers. She was angry enough to want to transmute the whole mountain of metal into a pile of slag but that wouldn’t solve anything. Instead, she modified the crystalline structure of the plates so that the weight of the stack would flatten out the characters enough to make them print illegibly. When the rubber print rollers were impressed by the plates the resulting pages would have to be discarded. 

The slim phantom with the dust rags and the grimy mop boy went home by different routes and Nina helped her brother scrub the brown rinse out of his mane. “The ink’s not going to adhere to the rollers,” Maes crowed.  
“And the plates will have to be melted down and recast. Good. Now what?”  
“That’s going to buy us a little time.”  
“Little time is all we have left, brother,” Nina fretted. “And don’t forget we need to make sure we’re off for the gala. Poppy’s going to need our support.”  
“Yeah, well, ‘Poppy’ would tan our hides if he knew what we were up to.” Maes toweled his locks dry. “Anyway, good night’s work, Nitwit. Now, let me tell you what I’ve thought of for tomorrow night….”  
###  
“Scoot over.”  
Ed cracked one eye open. “So I’m taking my half of the bed in the middle. You got a problem with that, Mustang?”  
“Fine. I’ll have to lay on top of you.”  
Ed rolled onto his back and burrowed his face into his pillow. “You won’t be comfortable. Suit your damn self.”   
Roy did as he’d threatened. It took a bit of shifting until he fitted against his lover’s back—and, holy of holies, found precisely the right spot to nestle several inches of annoyingly heated flesh that needed exactly the right soft of place to nestle into. “Mmmm?”  
‘Hmmmmph!”  
Roy’s hips began to churn slowly, rocking up and down along the heated cleft. Beneath him, Edward parted his thighs. “Mmm?”  
“Ummmhmmmmm!”  
Roy shifted again, pushing thin fabric out of the way. Foraging in the bedside drawer he found something suitably slick. He generously slicked what needed slicking. “Hm?”  
‘Um!” Then, “Ah!”, followed by “Ohhhhh…..”  
Ed arched back, then tightened wickedly in rhythmic pulses, something he’d learned in one of Al’s weird sex manuals he’d rather die than admit having flipped through. Granted, the trick known as ‘The Snapper” had been an instruction for women…but if his theory was correct…  
“AIIIIIEEEEE!!!AHH-ahh!Ahh!!!!!”  
Apparently it was. He did it again. And again. Arms laced around his chest and the breathing in his ear was ragged and hot. “Hhhhnnnnnn….hahhh…ohhhh…ohhhh…oh..FUCK!! FUCKSHITAAAAHHHAAHHHHFUUUUUUCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!”

Warm wet towel cleaned him front and back. Warm dry towel followed after. Ed let his blissfully limp body be rolled so a fold of dry, clean sheet was under him. Roy settled against his side, one arm and leg curled possessively around him. The other eye cracked open. Ed smiled in the dark. “Okay, so today sucked. Tomorrow will be okay, old man. Get some rest.”  
“Mmmmmmm…..mmm…mm….snzzzzzzzz….snzzzzz….zzzzz”

 

…..TO BE CONTINUED….


	9. "Don't Touch That Dial!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : Roy’s biographer goes ballistic (and breaks a nail) when the release of Fire and Vice is sabotaged—and Ed’s kids get to meet The Enemy on her own turf. Havoc prepares to face the firing squad of Riza’s wrath, while Roy’s on the radio getting grilled before a national audience. Meanwhile, back in Resembool, the 90-plus year old Pantheress of Resembool sends for Al and Ed and the kids for one last family reunion…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 9: DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy was startled when his stepson burst into his office at nine a.m., three days before his birthday gala. “Uncle Roy!” he crowed, “I drove past the book store and guess what? They’ve pulled down the sign about Kelley Winchell’s book! I called about it, and they told me that they’ve changed the shipping date! Isn’t that incredible!”  
His stepfather’s face expression was most peculiar but his tone was nonchalant. “I’m sure it’s still coming out.”  
“Yes, but not on your birthday! Aren’t you relieved?”  
“It’s been….postponed. I…I…ah…suppose that’s better than nothing.” He drew in his breath sharply. “Right. Thanks for letting me know. Now if you’ll excuse me, son, I have to get back to work.”  
The young man’s shoulders sagged a little. “Okay. Sheesh, I thought you’d be happy.” He turned to leave, then swung back around, a suspicious look on his youthful features. He rapped hard on the top of the President’s desk with his knuckles. “’Bye, Dad. Don’t hit your head on the underside of the desk drawer.” Maes was grinning now. “You guys,” he sighed dramatically and strolled out of the office, whistling off key.  
###

“That….bastard! That low-down, conniving, cocksucking son of a bitch!”  
Kelley Winchell slammed down the receiver so hard she broke it, as well as one perfectly lacquered nail. If she had had a dog in her town house she’d have kicked it halfway to East City out of sheer frustration. She glanced around but there was nothing within reach that would make enough noise when flung across the room so she pummeled the sofa cushions and rained curses on the publishing house of Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons.  
The entire first run—ruined!   
“I’m so sorry, Miss Winchell,” her publisher had told her, “The offset print wasn’t making a clean impression and the pages that were rolled out were not legible---“  
‘—I have a contract! I have a contract!” Winchell snarled into the phone. “I delivered my manuscript on time. I followed my end of the deal!”  
“—indeed, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly appreciate your professionalism. No, this was a mechanical error, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly regret the delay,” Mr. Howe babbled. “I give you my word that Dewey, Dickon and Howe and—“  
“—and Sons---you sound like a fucking parrot, you know that?” she growled, her fingers twisting in the phone cord. If Howe had come to her place and told her to her face she’d have had the satisfaction of splitting his scalp with a crystal ashtray flung from ten paces. “When my lawyer gets through with you---“  
“—he will point out the line item in your contract with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons that absolves us from any liability in the event of natural disaster or mechanical failure. Now,” Mr. Howe was regaining his composure. “we can offer compensation in the form of a reprint of one of your previous bestsellers with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons—or we can offer you---“  
“I’ll see you in court!” she snarled before breaking off the conversation and breaking the phone at the same time. She would have to send her assistant out to replace it—and to put in a second line while they were at it. “I’m going out, Matilda!” she shouted. “I want the phone fixed by noon—no later, or you’re fired. And get my lawyer on the horn—I don’t care if you have to walk five flights and use the payphone at the front desk. You tell Mr. Babcock to find me a way to break that man’s balls or he’s fired. Is that clear?”

She was in a foul mood in the taxi as she sped across the city to Barnes and Walden Booksellers, and when she saw that they had already yanked her advertisement poster out of the window she was ready to storm in, handbag swinging, and start threatening litigation before she stopped herself. After all, she reconsidered, she was a literary lioness---she had fans that she did not want to antagonize. She composed her features and adjusted her hat, refreshed her blood-red lipstick and stepped into Barnes and Walden with an imperial wave and a thousand watt smile. “Hello, dahhhlings!” she cooed.  
Nobody turned their heads.   
She cleared her throat. “HELLO, MY DAHHHLINGS!” It was ten o’clock in the morning and the scant handful of customers were buying the national and foreign-language newspapers which Barnes and Walden imported from Drachma, Aerugo, Creta, Ishval and Xing.   
In the corner there were several tables where shoppers could help themselves to fresh coffee and buy sweet rolls from Il Gattina’s that were delivered every morning. A man in coveralls had his face buried in a Drachman newspaper, three empty paper cups of black coffee at his elbow. He peered around the page he was reading and lifted his eyebrows.  
Winchell dashed over to him, beaming. “Hello, dahhling!” she gushed. “I’m Kelley Winchell,” as if her name should mean something to him.   
“Кто ебет вы?” (who the fuck are you?)   
She released his hand and backed away, her smile looking a little bit forced. “Very nice to meet you.” She spied a young woman, dressed like domestic in a heavy winter cap, flipping through the pages of an Aerugoan language guide. Surely she looked young enough and uneducated enough to be an avid reader. Winchell thrust out a bejeweled hand. “I know it must be dreadfully disappointing that my latest biography won’t be delivered on time—but I’ll be rescheduling my book signing and I hope you’ll join us, won’t you?”  
The girl offered a charming smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Voglio mangiare escrementi di cane e dolorosamente, die tu prostituta. Rivolta a me.” (“I want you to dine on dog excrement and die painfully, you woman who sells herself. I find you revolting.”) The girl giggled and offered a dainty curtsey. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. “Kel---Kelley Winchella? I am right, si?” She pointed to the biography end cap where an assortment of Winchell’s bestsellers were on prominent display. “Famoso---famous—Signora Winchella?” Winchell’s eyes sparkled as she nodded. “Signora Winchella! Famoso!” The girl impetuously hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. She snatched a paper napkin from the coffee counter. “Autografe, per favore?” She held out a fountain pen with such a pleading smile that Winchell could not refuse.   
“It’s so wonderful to meet my fans from all over the world,” she gushed. “What is your name?”  
The girl looked puzzled for a moment then smiled eagerly. “Name?? Il nome? Oh, sì – il mio nome è Lucrezia.” Winchell repeated her name and scribbled a dedication on the napkin. “Lucrezia” curtseyed again. “Vi incoraggio ad avere relazioni coniugali con un maiale. I seni sono falsi, tu non hai talento e hai il rossetto sui denti. Vi sconfiggeremo. Buongiorno!”(“ I encourage you to have marital relations with a pig. Your breasts are fake, you have no talent and you have lipstick on your teeth. I will defeat you. Good morning.”)  
As soon as Winchell roared away in her famous pink brougham the girl and the young man with the news paper hugged each other, carefully pocketing the autograph. Maes gently tugged a loose strand of his sister’s chestnut hair. “Nice job,Lucretia.Like she has any clue who Queen Lucretia of Aerugo was—or what she did to her enemies in the 17th century.”  
“I positively draw the line at thumbscrews and poison—and that business about the rat cages,” Nina shuddered. “However, I quite applaud her personal motto: ‘Ci insultano a vostro rischio e pericolo’” (‘Insult Us At Your Peril”)  
###  
“Professor Elric? You have a delivery. It requires a signature.”  
“Huh?” Ed shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Ruby had buried him in backlogged paperwork and three of the Cretan guest professors were complaining that their office had no heat this morning and Winry and Pitt had wired that Granny Pinako was back in the hospital again—somehow he would have to get up there to see her in case…well…he wouldn’t think about her dying. Granny was going to live forever, after all. All she needed was a little rest.   
Collins knocked again. “Sir, I’m sorry, but this is that shipment you were expecting from Xing. This was dropped off from the Aerodrome an hour ago.”  
Ed nearly knocked the young apprentice butler on his backside as he shot out his office door. “Holy crap! I gotta get that to the meat locker right away—and don’t let anybody open it! That’s Roy’s birthday present!”  
“The meat locker, sir?” Collins looked bewildered as Ed yanked the clipboard out of his hands, scrawled his name and then anxiously inspected the box. ‘No leakage. That’s a relief. Gimme a hand with this, will ya?”  
“I’ll get a freight dolly, sir—and I’ll inform Ramsay to make room. I daresay he may be cross over the short notice—“

Ramsay wasn’t cross. He was pissed. “Bugger that, Professor!” he snapped. “You can’t just come in here and have me heave out half a side of beef and all those steaks and chops for—what the hell IS that thing?”  
“Your employer’s 50th birthday present—and you have no fuckin’ idea what I went through to get it. It’s in a crock of liquid nitrogen and I need a place where it won’t be disturbed.”  
###  
Dr. Knox jammed the cotton-tipped swab down Jean Havoc’s throat with the same force that Havoc would have rammed a barrel-swab up the nose of a rifle. “I can’t get sick,” Havoc rasped. “There’s too much to do. Doc, you gotta get me some medicine and straighten me out!”  
“Some soldier you are,” Knox grumbled as he dabbed at a clean slide, covered it and slipped it under his microscope. “Anything else you need to whine about today?”  
Havoc looked slightly abashed. “Yeah. I got a killer case of jock itch. I need some cream or something.” Knox didn’t answer, intent on the slide he was studying. “It’s kinda…red down there…y’know?” Knox stepped away with a short bark of cynical laughter. He felt the glands in Havoc’s neck then ordered him to drop his pants. “Can you give me some cream for that, Doc?” Havoc repeated as if the doctor was ignoring him. “Can you fix me up?”  
Knox turned away and pulled something out of his medication cabinet. When he turned around he was holding up the biggest syringe and the longest needle Havoc had seen since he’d been hospitalized after Lust attacked him. He sucked in his breath abruptly. “Ah…heh heh…um…Doc? Is that supposed to cure my jock itch or my throat?”  
“It’s a cure for Neisseria Gonorrhoeae. “  
“Nessy—what??”  
“You’ve got the clap, son. Bad a dose as I’ve seen since the war.” Havoc nearly bit his lower lip in half when the needle rammed into his backside. “Pull up your pants.” Knox grabbed a pad and pen, scribbled something down and passed to the horrified Havoc. At the top of the sheet was written “LIST OF SEXUAL CONTACTS—CALL CEntral 69482”. Dr. Knox had already written ‘COLONEL RIZA HAWKEYE’ on the list. “All your contacts need to be treated. Immediately. Have Colonel Hawkeye report first thing in the morning.”  
“Sh—sure thing, Doc.” Havoc’s insides turned over. “If she’s not in the brig for shooting my nuts off.”  
###

All in all, it had been good. Damn good. And now she was tired.  
She was in her ninth decade—“ninety and some spare change,” she used to joke. There wasn’t much that she had wanted to do that was left undone, other than perhaps enjoy watching a crop of great-great grands grow up. Neither Maes nor Nina was fool enough to rush into the kind of stupid, half thought out entanglements that had made Edward and Winry miserable for those mercifully brief years of their marriage. Still, it would have been nice to see the next generation of Rockbell children. Winry had given her seven great grandchildren by two good men and she was proud of every last one of ‘em. And in spite of all odds, Ed and Winry had made peace at last and Winry had finally quit chasing Alphonse and had settled down with the right man in the end.  
It had been a good life and she was ready to close the book and lay it aside and rest—but not for long. She didn’t know what lay beyond the Gateway but the Pantheress of Resembool relished the idea of finding out. Sometimes when she dreamed she could see old friends and loved ones smiling and hear them laughing and calling out to welcome her. Urey. Sara. Trisha. That old reprobate Hohenheim—she could still drink him under the table. Faust and his limonchello, Dominic le Coulte—ohhh, could he face her now? And her long dead husband, Doc Rockbell who never tried to tame the Pantheress but kept up with her until the day he died—smiling—in her bed. Her friends. Her lovers. Her child. It would be good to see them again.  
Of course, Winry was making a fuss. Wouldn’t be Winry if she didn’t. “You’ll be up and out of that bed in no time.” “Don’t be silly, Granny! You’re going to live forever!”  
Pitt was no fool and didn’t try to hide it. “Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need…anyone you want---“  
“I want to see the boys—and Maes and Nina. Roy’s got some big fuss about his fiftieth birthday—“  
“—and I know Roy Mustang well enough to know he’ll understand.” Pitt patted Pinako’s hand in a way that didn’t annoy her. Pitt had been the best blessing in the last decade of her life: a man who was a true son to her, and so like Urey in spirit she couldn’t have wished for a better husband for Winry even if she still cast occasional yearning glances at Alphonse after making her choice, since Alphonse and Julia hadn’t tied the knot or started a family. No, Al had been wise to bring Julia home that Solstice, because seeing them together drove Winry straight into bed with Pitt with that same determination she’d shown towards Edward long before. This time, though, she’d bedded and bred with a man who was willing to give her the whole of himself, not just half a life.  
Yes, she sighed with satisfaction. It all turned out just about right.   
“Pitt? I want to talk to Roy. Can you get him on the phone for me?”  
“Not Ed or Al?” Pitt looked puzzled.  
She shook her head wearily. “I want to talk to Roy—and don’t take all day getting him on the phone, either.” She smiled. “I may not HAVE all day to wait on him….”  
###  
That’s one of the perks I will shamelessly exercise as President, Roy mused as Sheska rang him up to announce that Donal Samuelson was on his way to Rose Hill for a live interview promised weeks ago. I make them come on my turf, on my terms.   
Not that Roy had to go begging for press. Even as a young rising star in the state military Roy had captured more than his share of the limelight, much to the chagrin of his senior officers. Now Radio Capital was not only broadcasting an interview with him it was being captured for newsreels that would be shown in theaters all over Amestris, even abroad.  
The mirror congratulated him for eating right, working out and staying fit. Only a few faint touches of gray at his temples and his belly was washboard taut. Barely a whisper of laugh lines in the corners of his eyes—he’d looked older when he came back from the war. A decade and a half of mattress gymnastics with Edward and a soul-satisfying family life—and the odd gifts of being one of The Father’s “sacrifices”—and he never felt better other than the aches of old wounds in his side and the palms of his hands.  
His dress uniform fitted him to perfection and Sebastian had carefully cleaned all his battle ribbons and medals. Collins buffed his dress shoes to a dull sheen and there was not one single fingerprint on the scabbard of his sword. “Damn, I’m good looking,” he told himself, and he was relieved he did not have to lie.

He knew from experience that they would roast under the hot arc lights needed for filming and accordingly ordered the windows in his office left open to the November chill. It might seem bitter when they set up but Donal and the crew would be thankful for it. Roy himself nearly passed out the first time—he was buttoned tight into that heavy wool uniform and the heat was as bad as the Ishballan desert where Donal had first interviewed Roy Mustang a lifetime ago…

“What the hell---?” Maes had put down his beer and glanced over his shoulder. It was some captain from Signal Corps snapping pictures and talking with the troops for some heartwarming piece of half-fiction for the folks back home. Roy noticed the captain was carefully avoiding the wounded, focusing on sunburnt, sweaty men with good looks and maybe the odd cut or scrape on a photogenic chin or forehead. Maes brightened considerably, yanked a comb quickly through his thick black hair, wiped the beer foam off his lips and dashed over, all but shoving other soldiers out of the way to get the captain’s attention. “If I get in the papers, maybe Gracia will see it,” he shouted back to his lover.  
Roy had cracked open another half-cold one and was chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of dried sausage made from some mysterious meat he’d prefer not to attempt to identify when the captain came over and saluted. “Major Mustang? Captain Samuelson, sir—Army Signal Corps. Sir, the folks back home have heard rumors about State Alchemists in the field—would you mind telling us a little bit about who the Alchemists are and how they are helping to win the war?”  
Oh, how he wanted to tell the truth. How he wanted to tell his—what, the kid couldn’t be more than sixteen? Seventeen?—greenhorn “by roasting the innocent—and no, that’s not a hunk of pork you smell roasting over a campfire. Those are children and their parents, asshole, and men like me lit the fires. How’s that for a morale feature, huh?” He bit his lip, knocked back his beer and forced a smile for the camera…

“….and welcome to Eye On Amestris. I’m Donal Samuelson, and tonight we are broadcasting live from the Presidential Palace in Central and we are honored to have as our guest this evening President—and former Fuhrer—Roy Mustang, who will be with us the full hour of our show to answer questions and, if our audio link is working, take some calls from our listeners. Mr. President, it’s always an honor.”  
Roy offered back his most winning smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Donal. Of course, I hear you every afternoon. Midday Amestris is very popular with the ladies on my staff. In fact I would not be surprised if a few of them aren’t waiting impatiently for us to finish this interview so they can get autographs.”  
They bantered back and forth cheerily for a minute or so and then Samuelson leaned in closer, ready to change to a meatier subject. “So, Mr. President…I don’t believe anyone would debate that for a fifty year old man you certainly appear to be fighting fit and ready to take on all comers in the tough presidential race ahead. I’ve noticed that your opponents have been noticeably quiet up to this point, but the odds are that once your birthday gala is over and the candles have been blown out it’s going to get messy. Just how far are you willing to go to insure you stay in office?”  
Roy looked thoughtful. “Why, Donal, you make this sound like a battle for control. I don’t see the presidency in those terms. The presidency is a position of service more than power. As we move towards democracy, more of the power per se will pass to Parliament, whose representatives will be elected by the people, not appointed any more. My intention is—and always has been—to serve the best interests of Amestris and her people. THEY are the ones who will decide whom they wish to serve. And as far as an election being ‘messy’…slinging mud and stabbing backs is childish and distracting. I intend to pursue a clean campaign. I would hope any serious candidate would follow a similar set of ethics.”  
“You’re aware that there is a book that is coming out—or rather, was coming out—this week by best-selling author Kelley Winchell that claims to blow the lid off the Mustang presidency and your involvement with the plot to overthrow Fuhrer Bradley. I am one of the few who has actually read the early proofs of this book, and in all honesty, Mr. President, she makes a very compelling case against you.”  
Roy was unruffled. “I regret that I don’t really have time to read popular fiction, which is how I tend to regard sensationalistic biographies of public figures. I understand it is a very lucrative way of making a living, rather like those old stories of men who would unearth the bodies of the dead in order to loot the bodies of any jewelry and steal the brass plates off the coffins. Distasteful, but profitable. If she is as popular as I am led to believe it would be refreshing to see her turn her talents towards actual news reportage. Failing that,” his smile became subtly cynical, “ perhaps she could write children’s books. That’s a profession in which the knack for telling a tall tale can be entertaining without ‘looting corpses’ or attempting to destroy lives.”  
“You regard her exposés as ghoulish? That’s rather strong language.”  
Roy lifted a cautioning finger, still smiling. “Tell me, Donal---you’ve been an insider in the field of information since you were in the Signal Corps during the Isballan war. In fact, you were the first to ever interview me, there on the battlefield, which was widely read as the first in-depth story on the lives of State Alchemists. It was a laudable piece, as I recall---and that was due to your painstaking research into the lives of those called to serve the nation as State Alchemists. It wasn’t an altogether pretty picture—but it was accurate and well received by all sides. Now,” Roy inclined himself slightly towards Samuelson, encroaching subtly on his space, “I have known Former Fuhrer President Grumman for a great many years. I have served proudly with Alex Louis Armstrong and while General Olivier Armstrong and I have often held opposing views I have never questioned her patriotism or her outstanding skills as a commanding officer. Not one of them was ever approached by Miss Kelley or her research staff when she wrote her alleged exposés of their lives. Nor was I approached---nor was my family or personal staff. Presenting second or third—or fourth-hand—rumor and innuendo as fact and selling it to the public as entertainment is unethical at best and offensive at worst.”  
“So the publication was not delayed, as rumored, by threats from your personal aides?”  
“Absolutely not. Anyone on my staff that would do such a thing would find themselves at the unemployment bureau in short order. As I have stated in the past, I believe in a free press. Miss Winchell is free to publish her…creative interpretations…of the lives of others. And Amestrians are free to support her if they choose. But,” his expression became smooth and the warmth evaporated from his voice, “it is important that the readers consider the source. I’m sure the average citizen would not enjoy having their reputations speculated on by their neighbors—oh, look, there’s Mary! Did you hear that she has a terrible drinking problem? And there’s James—they say he’s a terrible wife beater!” The smile slide back artfully over his handsome features. “And nobody telling the tale has even bothered to talk to Mary or James. Would they enjoy it? I seriously doubt it. Besides,” he added with a wink towards the camera, “the truth is always more interesting than fiction. And it makes for better reading.”

It was during the second half of the program that one of the engineers handed a note to Samuelson. He glanced at it and nodded. He handed it to Roy who suddenly looked very concerned. “My apologies, Donal, to you and our audience. I’m afraid that I will have to cut this short”  
“Understood, Mr. President, and I want to thank you for inviting us into your home for this interview. Ladies and Gentlemen, when we return from commercial we’ll open the phone lines for your comments---so please, don’t touch that dial! This is Donal Samuelson---and you’re listing to Eye on Amestris….”   
###  
“Sorry to ruin your birthday, Roy, but I need the boys—and the kids.”  
“Dr. Pinako…ma’am….are you sure…?”  
“Well, I was hoping to make it to a hundred, but…what the hell. Wish they’d let me have my pipe in here. And a dog---not right not to have a dog here. Maybe I’ll see Den when I see that damned Gateway Ed and Al keep talking about.” She paused to cough. “Anyway, do this old lady one last favor and send my kids home. I want to say goodbye…but more than that, Ed needs to know it’s okay…I’m tired and I’m ready and he needs to know there’s nothing to be sad about this.”  
“Havoc has already called the airfield. There’s an airship to East City leaving at 10 o’clock. I’ll have a military escort meet them upon arrival and get them straight to Resembool. However,” he added with a soft chuckle, “you have to give me your word that you’ll stay long enough for them to say goodbye.”  
There was a rusty laugh on the other end. “I’ll do my damndest. If I miss ‘em, tell Ed and Al I loved ‘em like they were my own—and I’m proud of them. Tell Maes and Nina to take care of their dad---Ed’s not going to take this well. You know how he is.”  
“Yes ma’am. And…thank you….for everything…Granny.”  
“You’re a handful and a headache, Roy Mustang, but you’re family too.” Her voice was faint but there was an unmistakable fondness in her tone. “Thank you for raising the kids right and keeping Ed out of trouble.”  
“I’ll take care of them, I promise.”  
“Thanks, Roy. Goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Granny. Safe journey.”  
“See you when I see you, son.”

 

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	10. "HERE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed, Al and the kids are heading back to Resembool as Pinako prepares to say farewell after a long life well lived---but Ed’s inhability to face the loss of another loved one has him wound up so tightly he’s close to snapping…

Everything that lives has to die. That is the nature of this world  
A soul impacts other souls and lives on in other hearts  
Everything in this world flows and circulates—that goes for human lives as well  
\--Izumi Curtis

Nina Elric wasn’t good at crying. Would have been so much easier to just break down and sob like Uncle Al, or to let the tears silently flow like Tinker. Instead her grief was like a cold lump inside her chest and a sick, jittery feeling in her stomach….just like her father.  
She’s ninety-four. We’re lucky to have had her this long. Nana Zumi taught us that life only flows in one direction and that death is nothing to fear. But it’s so….heavy….inside me.   
“Nina? Honey? I’ve got your bags packed, dear. Do you want to check to see if I’ve left anything out?” Gracia slipped her arm around the girl’s waist. As soon as Roy called her she and Elycia hurried over to the Hohenheim to help their friends any way they could. Elycia had fixed a generous hamper of food for the trip—not that anyone would feel much like eating, so there were also simple nourishing snacks of cheese and crackers and fruit. She’d headed over to the older sibling’s rooms to make sure he was ready, finding Jean Havoc with everything well in hand and Maes bearing up as best as he could, for the young man loved his great grandmother very dearly.  
“It’s good. I’m sure.” Why did her hands feel so cold? Just the smell of the food coming from the hamper made her want to vomit. “Is Tinker okay?”  
Gracia’s smile was very gentle. “Honey, nobody is okay today. Nobody has to be okay. But you’re not alone…never, ever.” She hugged Nina tightly, gently rubbing the rigid shoulders.   
###  
“Collins, I’ve called Mrs. Bradley and informed her that you will be staying on a bit longer yet. At the moment you’ll be needed here.”  
The young butler nodded to his Majordomo. “Thank you, Sir. I will also call her myself and offer my apologies. If there is time I will stop by and introduce myself to Mrs. Bradley and Master Selim.”  
Sebastian nodded. He’d done well with this boy, guiding him carefully up through the household ranks, not simply to serve as a butler but to serve and protect His Excellency above all. “Present arms.”  
A flick of both wrists and a throwing knife slid into each hand. A discreet flip of his jacket lapels revealed loaded sidearms. “Pockets?” A fine coil of garroting wire and a sealed phial with a single dose of cyanide were revealed. The capsule was for himself if he were to find himself in a compromising situation and no way out. An enemy might take him captive but they would never take him alive…at least not for long. Sebastian nodded. “Good man. Well done. Carry on, Collins.”  
“Yes sir!”

###  
The two battered brown valises were packed yet again with Sebastian’s ruthless efficiency. A garment bag sat in the hall beside them, bearing Edward and Alphonse’s best black suits. Silk black armbands, one for each of the brothers and one for Maes who didn’t own one, were thoughtfully included. Havoc would drive Maes and Nina to the airfield where Edward and Alphonse would meet them, driven by Colonel Hawkeye. Havoc would be escorting the Elric family to Resembool and when they arrived at the depot an army staff car would be at their disposal.

There was nothing for Ed to do but fidget and snap at people. Eventually, even Alphonse retreated. He fully understood his brother was battling with his own emotions but that didn’t mean Alphonse was in the mood to put up with them. After all, he recalled, once upon a time they had been two little boys in a graveyard—the same graveyard where Pinako would rest—and it was Ed who refused to accept that their precious mother was gone. It was Ed who railed against death, Ed who couldn’t move on—and Ed who never stopped beating himself up over what that character flaw had cost them both.  
He had warned Roy. “This is going to be bad.” Roy nodded, clapping Alphonse on the shoulder without a word before heading up to the room he shared with his lover. There were going to be fireworks, most likely, and Al decided the best thing he could do was catch a cab to the dorms and see if Maes and Nina needed any help. There was a damn good chance Ed was going to throw a punch at something—and if it happened to be Alphonse there was no guarantee that Al wasn’t going to clock him back. It would be awful if Granny’s last words to the Elric brothers she’d midwifed into this world were “can’t you boys behave???”  
###

“Ice?” Roy’s hand—the one that wasn’t cupping his left eye—gestured towards their private sitting room. Sebastian always kept the sideboard well stocked. It was a point of honor that both the ice bucket and the state-of-the-art electric coffee percolator were at the ready on the bar, since Roy and Ed often relaxed in there with family and friends. Ed grabbed one of the clean linen tea towels stored in the sideboard, scooped up a handful of cracked ice and improvised a compress for His Excellency.   
“Fuck…I’m sorry. I….damn. Roy---“  
The free hand gestured for Ed to shut the hell up. “What time’s your flight?”  
“I thought we were leaving at ten, but the when Havoc called me he said 11:30—“  
“The airship leaves at ten, but there’s a transport flight to East City tonight. Twelve-seater puddle jumper, but it will get you there faster, if you don’t mind riding with the mail.”  
Despite his mood, Ed looked interested. “A Handley-Page?”  
Roy shook his head and instantly regretted it. “Armstrong Argosy.”  
“That seats fourteen, and Armstrong would be pissed to hear an Argosy called a ‘puddle jumper’.” The limited run of the three-engine Armstrong Argosy aeroplanes was due to their higher standards of passenger comfort. Their famous “Silver Wing” service route was the first passenger air service to Aerugo and Table City and would soon carry up to twenty passengers in first class luxury to the Imperial City in Xing.  
“Technically it’s for military officers, but that’s a waste of taxpayer’s money. I had it modified and now it runs express air mail and parcels between the region capitals. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”  
“I design the fuckin’ engines—I don’t know who routes ‘em where.” He turned away, feeling awkward. He’d just…swung out in frustration when all Roy was trying to do was offer him comfort. It was the dumbest thing he’d ever done and he felt sick about it. No different than Winry decking me with a wrench for pissing her off. I can’t say shit about that anymore. Guess I’m just as bad…no, I’m worse. She grew up and got over it. I’m fuckin’ thirty-six years old and there’s no damned excuse.   
He touched his lover’s shoulder. “No damned excuse,” he echoed his thoughts. “How bad it is?”  
Roy shrugged. “At least your hand is flesh these days. If you’d been fifteen you’d have gone out the back of my head.”  
“Lemme see….goddamn…that’s gonna leave a ---“  
“A rather impressive shiner. I expect I’ll have to enlist Ross to help me cover it up for the newsreel cameras.” Roy smiled slightly. His head was still ringing a little. Edward didn’t have to punch as many people out as he did in his teens but his fighting strength hadn’t diminished one whit since The Promised Day. “I fear I’m slowing down. Should have ducked.”  
“Should have decked me back, damn it.” Ed sighed heavily. “I deserve it.”  
“Don’t tempt me.” There was a chuckle from behind the ice pack. “I could light your pony tail like a fuse and you know it. But under the circumstances, forget it. You can’t handle death.”  
“I—“  
A sharp look shut him up. “Let me finish. You’re tough, Ed. Sometimes too tough—on the outside. I know you too damn well. You go to such lengths to be a hardass—you haven’t changed all that much since the Promised day. You’ve got this damned stupid image of yourself as being ten foot tall and bullet proof…and at the same time you know damn well you’re eating your guts out because you care too damn much about other people. You know it’s the truth—so don’t stomp off like a kid. Shut up and listen to me…for once.”  
Ed glared at him. That was good, Roy told himself. He needs to get this out of his system before he goes back to Resembool wound up tight and gets into a shouting match with Winry or starts in on Al. Pinako doesn’t need a ruckus at the end.   
“Ed, if you didn’t have a heart our kids wouldn’t have turned out as well as they have. Maes and Nina taught you that it’s not a sign of weakness to feel emotion. Nina’s got that same attitude and I’m worried it’s going to break her some day, but Maes…he’s the best of you, Ed. I see him and I see you the way you are when you’ve got your guard down. And I’m just as bad—no, I’m worse. I’m a soldier. I was trained to kill people and watch my comrades die and never break step…never cry for them…never lose my composure. You were with me in the tunnels, Ed. You saw me with Envy. You saw me break.” Putting down the cold compress Roy faced Ed full on, his left eye purpled and swollen. “And right now…right now…you’re about to break because you can’t stand to lose another mother…even though she’s lived a long, good life. Pinako raised you, she was a mother to you when Tricia died, even more than Izumi….and it’s breaking your heart to say goodbye. Give me your hand.”  
The knuckles were reddened. Fleetingly, Roy felt a hint of satisfaction that it must have hurt Edward at least a little bit when his fist made contact with Roy’s face. Roy guided the offending hand in between the crisp folds of his shirt until it rested over Roy’s heart. “Look at me.”   
Ed obeyed, his own gaze guarded, not wanting to own up to the truth of the injury he had obviously done to the man he loved. Had Winry ever felt that sickening pang of regret after hitting him? She must have, he reckoned. It’s a hell of a shock to look at someone you love and see your anger raise a bruise or make them bleed. Question is, is that shock stronger than your anger? It wasn’t for her back then, maybe, but it fucking well is for me right now. But I understand her a little more now. Helluva way to behave.  
“One day, this heartbeat is going to stop.”  
Ed felt sick, pushed back a rush of panicked thoughts and images. Roy facing down Edison in a back alley. Years later, Roy stoically having a bullet dug out of his shoulder, refusing to go in the OR, appearing in public a few hours later to assure the public he was well and that the sniper’s ambitions had come to nothing. So close…damn, he’s come so close…I’ve come so close to losing him…  
“This heart will stop. Or,” Roy’s hand moved to Edward’s shirt. “This heart will stop. No way to know when—and that’s the way it should be. I don’t want to live forever, Ed. Only fools and madmen like the Father or King Xerxes or the idiots in the Old Guard would even try.” The scarred hand began to caress, sliding up and into Ed’s disheveled hair, gently rubbing the tension at the back of Edward’s neck. “I used to believe that there was nothing after death. That was before I passed through the Gateway the second time. Before my sight was returned. Before I saw Hughes.” Roy leaned in close, resting his forehead against Edward’s. “You know what he said to me. I told you. He told me to stop turning my heart into a grave for him. To go out and risk…and love…because life is short enough and I can’t miss a moment of it.” Both hands were caressing now, and Ed could feel a burning at the back of his throat. His eyes began to sting. “Ed…one of the greatest gifts we can give someone is to be there for them when they leave us. It’s not about us—it’s about them. She loves you, Ed. She loves Al and the kids and Winry and Pitt and it’s an honor that she loves you so much she wants you to be right there, holding her hand when she goes on….and from what I’ve seen—what we’ve both seen, and Al and Izumi too—is that there is a ‘going on’. We don’t simply end. Whatever there is on the other side of that Gate isn’t ‘god’—but it’s life and energy and what we love isn’t gone. It changes, but it isn’t gone. And I swear to you,” Roy’s arms were locked tightly around Ed’s shoulders now, “I swear to you, if I go first, I’ll wait at the Gate, just like Alphonse, until you come through. Whatever there is, we’ll explore it together. If Al could wait, so can I. Okay? In the meantime,” his lips grazed Ed’s, “I am here. Right now. You’re here. Let’s not waste it.”  
###  
“Hey.”  
Her father’s voice was very quiet, very gentle. Her face felt like a frozen mask, and when he slipped his arm around her she thought she would fracture like a cracked china doll.   
He pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve been through the Gate, kiddo. Nothing we love gets lost. Remember that. It just sucks to say goodbye.”  
Nina buried her face in her father’s chest and wept at last.  
###  
Ruby’s cheesecake, Maria Ross decided, was the eighth Deadly Sin. That didn’t stop her from indulging in a second slice and a third glass of wine. They’d spent the evening at Ruby’s flat making dinner and relaxing. Sheska had been there earlier but about halfway through the President’s interview with Donal Samuelson on the radio she’d gotten a call and had to duck back to the office. The other two women spent the rest of the evening pouring over paint samples and wallpaper scraps over a bottle of wine, since Maria was planning on remodeling her kitchen.  
They had just concluded that Maria should strip down the old oak cabinets and refinish the natural wood when the phone rang again.  
Ruby heard a few ‘uh-huh’s’ and a long silence. The phone clicked in its cradle. Ross buried her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it,” she groaned. “I just can’t stand it any more!”  
“What is it?”  
“I’ve got to come in a half hour early all week---and I have to sit in the Presidential box at the gala.”  
Ruby lifted her eyebrows. “Like that’s a bad thing?” Overtime pay and posh seats at the gala didn’t sound too bad to her thinking. “C’mon, Maria! You’re Mustang’s other right hand woman! He knows he can’t get by without you! You’re a shoe-in for that promotion! You’re bright, motivated….you’ve got great organizational skills. He needs your talents. He needs your input, He needs---“  
Maria Ross shook her fist at her unseen boss. “HE NEEDS MY GODDAMN MAKEUP!!!”

…TO BE CONTINUED


	11. "ONE FOR THE ROAD"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Al arrive back home in Resembool to say farewell to Granny Pinako and grant her last requests: a bottle of Stray Dog, a pipe….and a party.

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 11: ONE FOR THE ROAD  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

“Careful? Careful my ass!” The hospice nurse cowered in the corner as the old dying woman railed at her. She glanced hopefully at the doctor grinning in the doorway, hoping he would back her up for refusing the old lady’s request for a shot of Stray Dog whisky.  
“Give her any damn thing she wants. Might as well go out smiling,” said Dr. Pitt Renback while his wife Winry’s jaw dropped in horror.   
“Pitt, you can’t mean that!” she gasped. “Granny—“  
“—Granny’s about to die, girl,” Pinako shot back at her granddaughter. “And she’s going to go out with a smile on her face or she’s not going. I want my pipe, too—and tell Sarah to let the dog in here.”  
Before Winry could argue her husband kissed her on the forehead. “This is the Pantheress of Resembool,” he told her. “I’ve heard the stories, honey. Last thing I want to do is get on her bad side. She might haunt me.”  
“Damn right! Glad you got me out of that hospital, boy. At least you’ve got some sense. Those fools feeding me mush and weak tea, telling me I can’t smoke, not letting the little kids come in for fear they’d make me sick. Make me sick?? No cure for what I’ve got, so why keep my great grandchildren away from me??” She frowned at Winry. “You gonna get my pipe?”  
After a long moment, Winry nodded. “Promise you won’t smoke alone in the room?”  
“Afraid I’ll kick off and then set the bed afire? All right. I promise. Pitt, where’s my bottle?”  
“I’ll get it—but until Ed and Al and the kids get here, I’m going to do the pouring. No arguments. You raised hell for them to get here and they’re on their way from East City right now. I want you sober enough to say hello, okay?”

Winry located the keseru pipe and its battered tobacco box on the whatnot shelf near the old woman’s worktable. It was awful, just awful. When the doctor at the hospital told Pinako that she was dying the old woman’s behavior became downright disgraceful. Instead of being depressed, Granny’s spirits began to rise and she brightened up considerably. Winry misinterpreted this as her grandmother rallying, convinced that the 94-year-old would be back on her feet in no time. “Don’t be stupid, Winry. Pack my things—no, don’t bother. Nothing I can’t leave behind me. Just get me the hell out of here. I miss those green hills and the river. I want the kids around me and a puppy in my lap. I want a good stiff drink and a smoke and something on my plate that doesn’t look like it just came out of somebody’s diaper. Call Ed and Al—no, give me that damn phone. I’ll call Mustang. He’ll get their ungrateful asses back home. I want Nina and Maes—I want everybody. This is my going away party for as long as it lasts and I want to make it a good one. Now, get cracking!”  
It seemed so wrong. Why was Granny acting like this? Had she lost her mind?  
Long, long before she was born, Winry knew her grandmother had, well..a reputation. Every now and again some old timer, usually a man, would talk about her and smile a certain way and say something like ‘boy, Miz Pinako…she was something, back in the day…’ Winry never inquired to closely—this was Granny, for heaven’s sake! She was sedate. Respectable. Sober. Her only vice was her pipe…or was it?  
Apparently it wasn’t.  
When Ed left, Granny had once raised hell at her for calling Ed a pervert for sleeping with Roy Mustang…

"Winry, pay attention. Dick…in…mouth. I've done it. Your mother did it. You've probably done it—"  
"—GRANNY!"  
"-Garfiel's certainly done it—and now you know Ed's done it too." She made an O with her finger and thumb and rapidly thrust the pipe stem in and out. "Now then: dick…in…ass. I've done it—your mother probably did it—"   
"—GRANNY!"  
"—well, we didn't have a lot of birth control and you could do that and still technically be a virgin—and from the look on your face I'm guessing you don't know what I'm talking about. I'll bet you don't get the punch lines about Resembool boys helping the sheep over the hedge, either. And the old classic, jerking off. I've done it. I've done it so many times and I'll do it 'til I die. Damn good for what ails ya--  
"—GRANNY!"  
“I've straddled more cock in my life than you've had hot dinners. And I've gotten drunk in my Pantheress day and found myself in bed with all kinds of congenial people." She blew a cloud of smoke and grinned hugely. "So get that sharp stick out of your self-righteous ass and shut your yap about perverts.”

It had been one hell of a slap in the face and she tried not to dwell on the details. Oh, granted, being married to Pitt all these years she certainly had a better understanding of sex and love, but the idea of her grandmother carousing around, getting drunk and being promiscuous made her cringe. And the way she was talking and carrying on now Winry was afraid the next thing the old lady would demand would be an automail dildo---and worse, that Pitt would get her one.  
###  
“YEEEEOWWWCHHHH!!!!”   
The tiny toilet stall on the train to Resembool echoed with the anguished yelps of Jean Havoc as he emptied his bladder. For some reason all those smutty jokes about the clap he’d heard as a cadet started running through his mind:  
“What’s worse than having your doc tell you you’ve got the gleet?”  
“Having your wife tell you!”  
“Yeah, well, do you know the difference between the clap and the common cold? One you get from snatching kisses----“

“She’s gonna rip it out by the roots. She’s gonna drag me to the rifle range and paint a bulls-eye on my nutsack and---“  
“Uncle Jean, you okay in there?” Damn. It was Maes.   
“Uhhh…yeah, kid. I’m great.”  
“You don’t sound great. Want me to get Uncle Al?”   
Oh, hell no, Havoc panicked. Alphonse was very knowledgeable in Xingese healing but the last thing he wanted was Al’s hands on his reddened and infected wang. “No…must have a bladder infection. Get that sometimes. Usta use a catheter when I was wounded years ago. It’s okay. I’ll get some pills in Resembool.”  
He zipped up, washed his hands and stepped into the corridor. “All yours.”  
“Hmmm….judging from that scream I’d guess you’ve got a dose.”  
Havoc’s ears burned. “Wha…what makes you think I’ve…g-got…y’know….?”  
“Gonorrhea. The clap. The gleet, the drips, the---“  
“Hey, shudup, willya?” Havoc was mortified. “I’m not the kind of guy who fools around---“  
“—unless it’s being waved right in your face.” Maes was grinning. “I hear the Ice Cream Blonde is all over you like sparks on alchemy. You got protection?” Havoc looked terrified. “You need protection?” Maes dug into his pocket and Havoc’s eyes went wide. “Oh, hell’s bells, Uncle Jean! Do you think Uncle Al would trust my dad to teach me about the facts of life? ‘Be kind, be considerate, be responsible, be protected—and don’t take risks.’ Between his advice and those Ishballan sex poetry books I found of Uncle Roy’s I’d say I’m set for life.”  
Havoc shook his head. “And I remember when you were knee high to a hiccup. Now you’re off chasing girls—“  
“Girls? Hmmmm. Depends on what day it is. Let’s say I’m not prejudiced and leave it at that, okay?” The younger man slapped Havoc good naturedly on the shoulder and closed the lavatory door behind him.  
###  
“He really got you good,” Maria Ross observed for what seemed like the hundredth time as she used a damp sponge to dab on an ivory foundation over the layer of concealer she had smoothed over Roy’s bruised left eye. Concealer, foundation, eye shadow in a pale shade that made his eye look less livid. “You’ve got more paint on your face than a Central street hostess—oops. Sorry!” She had momentarily forgotten that Roy had been reared in a house of ill repute and his foster mother was a retired madame.   
“Tell that to Aunt Chris. She’ll find it amusing.” Mustang leaned forward and studied himself up close. His left eye was still a little puffy, but he could open it now. “If anyone asks, it happened in the stable. I got kicked by a colt.” Arjuna, at six months, was as skittish as his granddam Cirrocco and was secretly marking tallies on the stall door, Roy suspected, of the stable boys he’d bitten and kicked. Ed referred to him as the M.L.F.—Mean Little Fucker—and only Nina had any real luck handling him. “That’s good, Ross. Thank you. Since you’re sitting in the box, Collins will take you out to the dress shop. You’re being paid to keep me photogenic so this is a work expense. Find something nice to wear—and anything else. Shoes, a handbag, stockings. Collins will take care of it.”  
Ross was touched. “Thank you, Sir. It’s a shame that your family won’t be here. I know Nina was so excited about this. You’ll be without an escort.”  
“Actually, no. It may be last notice, but there’s only one woman who should be standing by my side tomorrow night. A very, very special lady indeed.” From her desk, Hawkeye didn’t look up but she stopped writing. Her heart gave a funny ba-bump! under her uniform jacket, that hammered harder when Mustang rose and nodded to her. “Colonel Hawkeye. I would like you to accompany me to Il Gattina—if you have nothing on your schedule.”  
She shoved a stack of files in her desk drawer and shut it firmly with a bang. “I’m available, Sir.”  
“Good. You and I have a great deal to discuss.”

Some women turned to chocolate. Some turned to men. Some indulged in ‘retail therapy’ while others just got drunk. When Riza Hawkeye was angry she went to the shooting range, and from the way she was blasting target after target to confetti her old friend and fellow gun enthusiast Rebecca Catalina was more than a little alarmed. “Girl, I don’t know what he said to you, but if he turns up dead in the next twelve hours I’d be hard put not to suggest you as the number one suspect.”  
“I’m not angry.” Hawkeye grabbed a pump-action shotgun from the pile of weapons she had checked out and blew another target to dust. “What makes you think I’m angry?”  
“Wouldn’t you rather go buy some shoes? Maybe get your nails done for tomorrow? After all, you’ll be up in the box---“  
“---with a scope riffle. In black. Watching his back---and Elycia’s.” She slapped a button and another line of paper targets swung into her crosshairs.   
“Wait—the ‘very special lady’ he was talking about---that was Elycia Hughes?? You gotta be kidding me! That’s why he dragged you to Il Gattina, for crying out loud??”  
“He asked me to take her shopping—and Gracia too. After all,” she gritted her teeth, “they’re family.”   
###  
“Throw me a party.”  
Ed’s head jerked back in shock. “WHAT???”  
“You heard me the first time.” The old lady poked him in the chest with the stem of her pipe. “Throw me a party.”   
Ed was speechless. Alphonse blinked like he’d been slapped. “We heard you, Granny,” he stammered. “We just didn’t believe our ears.”  
The old woman began to cough—a raw sound that must have rattled her scrawny ribcage. She gestured for another shot of Stray Dog. Maes gave it to her.  
“Granny,” Ed asked carefully, “you’re not up to it—“  
“That’s the whole damn point, Ed. But you are. You, boy, are going to throw a party for me—and you can pick up the tab. You and Al are going to go around town to everybody that knows me—hell, even the people who don’t---and call them up here tomorrow night. You are going to light a bonfire in the yard and break out some kegs of cider and beer and whiskey. You’re going to find some folks who can play and sing, and I want everybody who isn’t dying or dead drunk to kick up their heels and dance, boy. I want it like the old days—before we were a town. Back when we were a village and we’d celebrate Harvest around the bonfires and I would sit back with your old man Hohenheim and match him round for round—back when your mom was still a little kid dancing in her pinafore. And I want people to tell stories about me—yes, damn it, Winry—even the ones you don’t want to remember. And this little girl,” she pointed her pipe now at Nina,” is going to write them down and remember them. Because that’s what immortality is, Winry. It’s being remembered.”  
“But---“  
“I’ll stay out of the chill. Pitt, you move my bed downstairs and put me warm by the fire, but leave the door open wide so I can see ‘em dancing and hear the jokes and songs. Shoot off some sky rockets too. Always liked ‘em. And if I take a nap and don’t wake up, cry if you need to but keep on singing and dancing and drinking.”  
“Forget it!” Winry’s face was flushed with anger. “The very idea—“  
“—is a good one.” Nina rose from her grandmother’s bedside. She looked pale but determined. “Right, Tinker?”  
Maes slid his arms around his sister and hugged her fiercely. “Yeah,” he sniffed back the tears and managed a smile. “Let’s do it right.”  
Ed and Winry stared at one another. Both of them were horrified at the idea but Pitt and Alphonse were nodding in agreement. Granny, pale and short of breath, looked positively ferocious. “I guess---“ Winry sighed.  
“—If you’re sure---“ Ed echoed.  
###  
In the village, the shopkeepers were astonished. Not only were Miss Winry’s oldest kids buying out the shops, but the bills were being paid by none other than President Mustang. “I can at least do this for her,” Roy told his daughter over the phone. ‘Anything you want or need. I can’t be there for you but I can do this for her.”  
People began knocking on doors, running from house to house, from the foundry to the train station to the farms and in neighboring towns. Old Granny Pinako was saying her farewells and everybody was invited to the party. There wasn’t enough time for old friends from Rush Valley or former students from Central to get to Resembool but they all sent telegrams and flowers and phoned to send their love.  
Farmer’s wives scurried up the hill—now a properly paved road—with covered dishes and cakes while their brawny husbands and sons threw together trestle tables in the yard. Patients at the Rockbell Clinic recovering or preparing for automail surgery and were ambulatory were given rides up the hill and comfortable places to rest inside. Paninya kept the kids entertained and Garfiel donned his best frilly apron and supervised the pot luck preparations. Alphonse strung lights around the property while Ed directed everybody in sight, dashing up the steps every hour to check on Granny. The old bird was smiling, a dog’s head in her lap and Winry and Sarah never leaving her side. She could hear the racket downstairs and it pleased her no end.   
Maes and his young half brothers drove the old hay wagon around and gave rides to all the folks who couldn’t get there, helping—even lifting—the old ones and settling them in cozily, well wrapped with blankets. The house would be space for the elderly and the infants and the automail patients to hold court while the family received guests on the porch and the crowd celebrated on the front lawn.  
Right around dusk Winry rang the old dinner gong and called everybody to the front porch. Pitt rolled out a huge keg of freshly pressed hard cider and every glass and mug and cup was filled, Paninya offering jugs of sweet cider for the children and other folk who preferred not to imbibe. When everyone was ready Ed came out with Granny in his arms, warmly wrapped in a blanket but wearing her best dress, long hair neatly combed in her ever-present bun. Maes had rigged up a microphone so the old woman wouldn’t strain her voice to be heard.  
“Good of everybody to show up for my party….thanks. I….it means a lot to an old lady.” There was a slight quaver of emotion—a catch in her voice, but she mastered it. “Good of you to come out tonight. We’ve got plenty to eat, and enough booze to keep you dancing all night. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be back out for the fireworks once it’s dark.”

Ed sat on one side with Alphonse and Winry on the other, holding her hands, giving her tiny sips of whiskey. She waved away the food. “I’m fine. I’m just fine, thanks.” Pitt offered to load her pipe for her. “That’s okay, son. You keep it safe for me.” She turned to Ed and smiled a little. “Your missing Roy’s birthday.”  
“He’d rather be here with us,” Ed assured her.   
“No. He wouldn’t.” Pinako took a sip from the glass Al offered to her lips. “He woldn’t know what to do….wouldn’t be able to relax and fit in. Good man—but this isn’t something he would understand. Roy Mustang never got to be a kid…never got to be in a family before you two got together. Never learned to do anything but be proper, fight for his country, be an alchemist and protect other people—never could relax with common folk. Poor boy….poor boy……you take care of him, Ed. Teach him how to get drunk and dance under a harvest moon.”  
Ed nodded. “Alphonse,” she turned to his brother now, “I know why you didn’t marry Julia Creighton. I know what you gave up, son. You never stopped loving Winry.” On the other side of the cot, her granddaughter gasped out loud and turned scarlet. “No, hear me out. Julia’s a fine, fine girl. Should have been here tonight. But she’ll never leave Milos and you’ll never settle down. Being in that armor made you funny, boy—but you’ve got a loving heart. Grew to be a fine man. If you could have given up your dreams you might have made a good life with Winry but it’s not in you. And Winry, you never would have gotten pregnant with Sarah and married Pitt if you hadn’t thought Al and Julia would stay together. Are you happy, girl? Any regrets.”  
Winry thought for a long time in the silence that followed. “I have plenty of regrets.” She reached over her grandmother, brushed the hair back from Ed’s temple and touched the faded scar where she had hit him the night he left. “I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry I hurt you, Ed.”  
Ed clasped her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry we hurt each other. I’m glad we’re okay. We don’t need to talk about it anymore. It’s done.”  
She offered him a grateful smile. “And….I’m sorry, Al….that you and I…never…That solstice night in Dublith at Izumi’s house. Why didn’t you say yes?”  
Pinako answered for Alphonse. “Because he wanted it too much and knew you’d both be hurt worse if he said yes. He still wants you. You want him. You got a fine husband and a houseful of beautiful children. Pitt would lay down his life for you. Either get it out of your systems and get on with your lives—or walk away from this and leave it. But don’t live with regrets. Do what you have to do, but don’t let this drag on any longer. And remember---it’s easy to get into bed. It’s not so easy to climb out of it in the morning and face the wreckage you’ve made of your life for a night of pleasure. We crave all kinds of things. Not all of them are good for you.”  
The three of them were all feeling a little sick inside by all this candor, but it was Pinako’s right to say these things to them—and she wasn’t quite done. “Ed?”  
“Ma’am?”  
“Don’t let Nina grow up to be Roy Mustang. That rock and those words didn’t hit her head—it hit her heart. And a year at a royal court didn’t do her any favors. That sweet child thinks she’s a freak of nature. She’s a gift to this world. Help her remember that. And your boy is so brilliant he throws off sparks—trouble is, he does it in all directions. If you can teach that kid to focus on one thing that makes life worth living, he’ll do all right. I don’t seem him coming back here and following in my footsteps….would’ve been nice….”  
She seemed to drift off for a while, as if talking was tiring her. Outside there was the scrape of a fiddle in the twilight and the sound of clapping hands and the tang of wood smoke in the air that made Edward think of his lover and wish for that cool, confident presence to ease his heartache---  
“Where are my skyrockets?”  
Al looked up from his own reverie. “What?”  
“You promised me skyrockets.”  
“We were going to wait until---“  
“Take me outside, Ed. Get the kids on the porch. We’ll watch ‘em together.”

She weighed nothing. It was as if the chains that bound her to the earth had been released at last and she was feather light in his arms. Everyone made room so Ed could sit on the steps with Granny in his strong arms, turned so she could see the night sky. The thin sliver of a crescent moon had just risen above the mountains. Winry held her grandmother’s hand. “You want your pipe, Granny?” she offered.  
“No…you keep it now. Always did enjoy a good pipe. A good dog at my feet….Urey runnin’ around… Doc warming my bed every night. Good man, but I could drink him under the table. He could nail me right though the mattress, though…guess that’s equivalent exchange….”  
Alphonse reached down and gently removed her glasses. He folded them very carefully and tucked them into his breast pocket. There was a great wooooshhhh and the sky was painted with a cascade of golden stars.

‘Ed?”  
“Yeah, Granny?”  
“Tricia says….” Her eyes lifted to the night sky and she smiled. “She’s fine…..Ed…..she’s just….fine….” There was another whoooshhhh and a loud explosion that made the little ones squeal and dance around with their hands held out, wishing they could capture the blossoms of red and green fire, pointing up at a massive single burst trailing fire across the face of the crescent moon.   
Edward closed Pinako’s eyes. The Pantheress of Resembool slipped away between one breath and another, still smiling. She had ridden the contrails of that last golden comet , and it had carried her soul across the Rain River Valley of Resembool to where Tricia Elric was waiting on the other side to welcome her Home.

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	12. “BURN IMMINENT”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : Roy’s Presidential Birthday Gala has gotten out of Breda’s conrol—the performers are rebetlling and Roy’s staff is threatening to see asylum among the Milos. Hawkeye gets gunned down by the Ice Cream Blonde without a shot being fired, while Roy’s biographer falls into a trap set by Ed’s kids—and Roy gets a special birthday chewing-out from dear old Aunt Chris…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 12: “BURN IMMINENT”  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy Mustang’s staff had its own lexicon of military alert codes. “Foxtrot Echo Echo” (Fucking Edward Elric) meant that His Excellency and Professor Edward Elric were rearranging the Presidential office furniture with alchemy and sweaty bodies. In the event of an urgent issue that required His Excellency’s immediate attention ,under this code one should be prepared to see both men in various states of undress or occasionally even tied to a desk or chair and smeared with various lickable condiments from the kitchen. 

Code ‘Romeo Oscar Romeo’ (Roy On the Rag), possibly coined by Havoc, warned staff members that the President was in a foul mood and all communications needed to be brief and to the point to avoid being singed or shouted at. When a Code Romeo Oscar Romeo applied to Edward, it was fair warning that Ed and Ruby were close to blows in his office and to save furniture breakage it might be a damn good idea to send in the tea wagon to distract them before any more windows or chairs needed replacing.

In honor of the President’s fiftieth birthday, a new code was established:   
Code Bravo Ice, aka Code Burn Imminent. 

It was coined in honor of Roy Mustang. However, from that point on in Amestrian presidential administrations, Code Bravo Ice would refer to national emergencies, great cataclysms and natural disasters…  
###  
Roy checked the mirror, half expecting to see a pulsating bulge right above his left temple. If he’d been on the phone he could have slammed it down in the cradle. It might have helped his mood.  
Ruby, subbing in for both Hawkeye and Sheska, was wishing she was wearing something a tad more flame retardant. “Bad news?”

“Ruby.” There was a definite weary emphasis to her name and it got her attention. “In exactly twenty-four hours I will be in the Presidential Box at the theatre with a battery of film cameras trained on my every movement. There will be microphones in every nook and cranny—quite possibly one up my posterior as well. A number of highly volatile people are running amok and my subordinates are not able to contain them. In twenty…four…hours—“

“It’s not your problem.”

Braver souls than Ruby would have slunk under the carpet from the intense scowl he turned towards her. Ruby worked for Edward Elric. Nothing short of incineration would make her cringe. 

“You’re getting paid to run the country, right? This bullshit isn’t part of your job description. Sheska calls up and whines because she and Breda can’t get things under control.” She flipped her long black ponytail over one shoulder. “Screw ‘em, Boss. They were the ones who agreed to this dog and pony show. Not you. Right now your family’s gone and,” she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to find something nice to say about her employer, “I know you miss…him. Probably.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Delegate the bullshit, show up tomorrow looking pretty, smile for the cameras and make sure Elycia and Gracia have a good time. That’s all you’ve gotta do.”

Their eyes locked for several moments. Ruby didn’t flinch.  
Eventually, to everyone’s great relief, The Smirk® returned.  
“Get me Colonel Hawkeye.”  
###  
“ You’re fucking with only half a ball here, and it’s ALL going down the dumper.” 

“SHESKA????” Hearing that kind of language from the generally sweet-tempered bibliophile was like dropping a fresh horse turd into an antique vase from Ling Yao’s palace. Breda hurried over to her, genuinely alarmed. “Hey, you okay?”

The poor woman looked completely frazzled and fried. “Six weeks residency, Breda.”

“Huh?”

“Six weeks. All I have to do is cross the border to Milos, get a job working for Julia Creighton and in six weeks as an employable emigrant they can start processing my citizenship papers.” She shook her head in disgust. “Seriously. Pick a damn country, Breda—‘cause when this whole ‘Star Studded Salute To The President” is over with we will be running for the nearest non-hostile border with Roy Mustang throwing fire-bombs at our heels.”

He took a slurp of coffee. “No offense, Sheska, but it’s really not that big a shambles---“

That set the poor woman off on another round of spluttering and wailing, but they both jumped about a half-meter when the office door banged open and Vato Falman shot in, slamming it behind him. “Hide me.”

Breda looked concerned. “From what?”

“From whom, to be precise,” Falman panted. He was sweating heavily and Sheska offered him a tissue to mop his forehead. He signed his thanks as he fought to get his breath back. “Can you estimate how many floors we are above level ground?” Sheska informed him that they were three stories up.” That’s not high enough to cause a fatal injury, is it?”

“Sorry, no.” She studied him carefully. “Is this in reference to suicide or murder?”

“With Maestro Williams? Flip a coin.” Falman grabbed a chair before he fell to his knees. “That man is a martinet, A tyrant. A despot---“

“—a jerk,” Breda finished for him. “What does he want now?”

“A right-handed baton of rosewood—and it needs to be at least 25.5 inches.”

“He can’t use the one in the concert hall?”

Falman shook his head. “No, that’s only 24 inches.”

“So the guy’s got size issues?”

Falman looked despondent. “ He says it will adversely affect his tempo. Now I understand the old joke that the difference between an orchestra and a bull is that a bull has the horns in the front and the asshole in the back.”

“He can use my grandmother’s knitting needle for all I care.” He glanced at Sheska. “What else is blowing up in our faces?”

“The girls from Vagin—I mean—Vaganova keep asking where Alphonse is—“

“—what is it with Alphonse and ballerinas? You remember the ballerinas in Aerugo?”

“---who could forget?” 

“—and the father of the Altoid Sisters started a punch-up in the parking lot with Duke Brubeck’s manager. He thinks Brubeck was smoking something illegal in his car—“

“—I thought Furey was watching Brubeck—“

“—he’s gone. They had to stitch his upper lip after Mr. Altoid swung at Duke and Kain tried to intervene. Oh, and has anybody heard any of the comedy material Sherman Lehrer is planning to do?”

“Well, he promised not to sing ‘Hold My Purse While I Save The World’.”

Falman walked past the coffee and went straight to the Stray Dog. “That’s a relief.”

“I’m not so sure. He says he wrote a song about the President’s childhood.”

There was a long pause as the trio contemplated what sort of subjects that might include, considering that Roy didn’t exactly spend his tender years in a Letoist monastery. “Let’s get him on the horn before rehearsals tonight. I don’t want anything that hits below the belt. Cripes, what a mess!” Breda sighed. “So who’s watching The Ice Cream Blonde?”

“Well….I know we weren’t supposed to bother the President about this event,” Sheska picked nervously at a hangnail and refrained from looking at either Breda or Falman. “But with Al and Havoc gone…I just had to do something….and President Mustang was nice. Angry, but nice. He said he’d have someone take care of Miss Turlough and not to worry.”

“Great. That means Gladys Turlough, at least, is the one guest we have to worry about!”  
###  
A lot of men had shot at Riza Hawkeye. No woman had ever tried to slapped her. No woman was insane enough to try, at least this side of the Briggs Mountain

This made it all the more shocking that she could be taken down by a peroxide blonde sitting half way across the room, poking a manicured finger into a box of chocolates from Il Gattina to find all the cherry cordials.

“Sure you wouldn’t like some chocolates? These are just amazing.”

Hawkeye nodded towards her steaming coffee cup. “I’m fine, Miss Turlough. Thank you.”

“I heard Alphonse’s grandma is passing away and he and the family have gone back home. Jean went with him, you know?” She pouted prettily. Oh. So it’s Jean now, not Major Havoc? Hawkeye noted with displeasure. Her right eyebrow inched up a fraction but The Ice Cream Blonde was too self-absorbed to notice. “That’s a shame. That Alphonse is a sweet fella. I gave Jean some cens before he left so he could get them some flowers.” She bit deeply into a dark chocolate and then spat it delicately into a tissue. “Ewww. I hate chocolate mint! I gotta tell you, though, there’s nothing like a big strong country boy. Knows now to treat a lady. Jean is so nice about lighting my cigarettes for me when he’s around.” She held up the deep blue candy box decorated with little gold paw prints and filled with gold doilies and tissue. “City boys can be real doll-babies too. I got these from Roy. Look at the card—‘Sweets to the sweet. Am looking forward to seeing you perform tomorrow night---see, he even signed it himself!” Gladys held up the note so Hawkeye could see it and sure enough the signature was unmistakable. 

So that was the other reason he had her drive him to Il Gattina and was whispering with Elycia and borrowed her pen to jot down a note which Elycia had taken away. “I looooove the cherries best—they’re all good, but you can have fun with the cherry chocolates. Like this.” Gladys Turlough neatly nipped off the top of the cherry cordial with her perfect white teeth and then dipped the tip of her tongue into the sticky sweetness, swirling the glistening red fruit around and then catching it on her tongue. A man would have popped his buttons over the performance. Riza found it made her very uneasy. “And thennnnn…..you get to lick up all the creamy stuff…mmmmmm….” Eyes blissfully shut, she was doing things with her tongue to that piece of hand dipped candy that would make a woman melt faster than milk chocolate.

The Colonel cleared her throat. “You said you wanted to ask me some questions, Miss Turlough?”

“Yeah.” She lapped a drop of pink cherry goo off her lip and smiled. “What’s your motivation?”

Cognac eyes blinked. “My…motivation?”

“Uh huh. I mean, you’ve stuck by Mustang since you were young.” She plucked out a caramel truffle and bit the top off, tonguing away at the filling. 

“Young?” Had that sounded as bad as Hawkeye thought it did?

Gladys’ smile was full of kittens and sunshine. “Right. Because the story goes back to---what---1909? No—you knew him before. Way back in the 1800’s. And you’ve been serving him for simply ages. You never married, never had kids—always looking so…forceful…in that uniform. So---it had to be a strong motivation. I need to know what it is if I’m going to get the part just right.”

Hawkeye looked confused. “Part?”

The Ice Cream Blonde licked caramel off her thumb. “Roy didn’t tell you? They’re making a movie version of that Fullmetal Alchemist stage play. They want me to play you. I’m so excited! Me, Gladys Turlough, gets to be the famous Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye! My boss says this talkie is gonna go right through the roof---a real boffo smash!”

To her everlasting credit, Riza Hawkeye maintained her composure and mastered herself and her reaction, since the only ‘smashing’ that came to mind was a two pound box of top quality hand dipped chocolates hitting Gladys Turlough right in her pouty puss and sending her—boffo, smash!—right through the roof for sure. 

The words, when she found them, were cool and dignified. “Indeed.”

“They won’t have to use any special makeup to age me until the final scene. I just hate that icky makeup, don’t you? Oh--and they’re gonna play up the love story angle to make it sell. So I have to know, honey—how does Roy Mustang kiss?”

Hawkeye’s trigger finger began to twitch on the handle of her coffee mug.

“I mean, he’s got a real nice looking mouth. Does he use a lot of tongue, or does he, you know, save the tongue stuff for later?”

 

“Tongue…stuff?”

Gladys winked at her. “C’mon, we’re both girls. You can tell me. All these years with that hot sex machine. He’s got a reputation like nobody would believe. And guys who swing both ways are pretty adventurous. I can’t believe you’d hang around him for the better part of twenty five years and he never put his hand under your skirt.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. “Our relationship is—and always has been—strictly professional. Anything else is a violation of the army code of conduct.”

“If you say so.” Gladys made a little moue of disappointment. ‘I guess I’ll have to find out for myself!”  
###  
“Hey.”

On the other end of the line Ed’s greeting was subdued. “She’s gone?” Roy asked quietly.

“Yeah….I’m okay.”

“How are the kids?”

“Better than I thought they’d be. Nina kinda broke down on the trip over but she’s trying really hard. She’s with Winry. They’re….getting Granny ready.”

“Good.” Of course. That was how it was still done in the country. Just like it was done on the battlefield if you drew ‘tag and bag’ detail, only Granny would be washed and dressed with more tender concern than a body of a fellow soldier who was barely more than dead meat to be accounted for so they would know whom to send the medal home to. Far kinder to have the hands of loving family and friends perform this last service when one died instead of a mortician in the big city. They would sit up through the night with Granny and in the morning they would carry her coffin down the hill to the green and quiet place beneath the trees where old Doc Rockbell and the rest of Granny’s family were buried. “How is Winry taking it?”

“Having the kids and all here is a big help, and Teacher and Sig will be here tomorrow night. Teacher is going to stay up here for a bit to help with the younger kids.” Ed sounded very tired. “We have to stay after the funeral,” he added. “Granny left a will and Winry says that the kids were left some land—some good property, down near the river. Granny was always hoping Maes would move in and learn the automail business.”

Ed’s voice trailed off and they sat in silence together. Finally he whispered, “I just needed to….”

He needed to hear me. “I know.” Roy answered simply.

After nearly five minutes of breathing quietly on the other side, Ed told him that he probably needed to free up the line so the rest of the family could use it. “I’ll call you after the funeral.” He glanced up at the clock. “Oh. Happy birthday.”

Roy grinned. “Thanks. We’ll celebrate when you get home, the way we ought to have done. Anything’s better than that…farce….they’ve got planned for tomorrow—I mean today.”

He could almost hear Ed grinning on the other end of the line. “That bad, eh?”

Roy snorted. “What was that phrase Havoc used to say? ‘Crazier than a shithouse rat’? Tell him and Alphonse that Sheska and Hawkeye are keeping things under control—well as under control as you can get in a disaster area.”

“Wish I could be there.”

“Trust me, you’ll be glad you missed this. I’m almost sorry I asked Gracia and Elycia to go with me. Oh—and tell Alphonse the Drachman ballerinas are asking about him.”

“No way!” Ed shot back. “He’s got women trouble enough to deal with.

“More than usual?” 

Ed grumbled, “Yeah, actually. Long story, charts and graphs and too messy to get into now. We’ll trade horror stories when I get home.” There was an evil chuckle on the other end that made Roy stiffen in his pants. “Right after I give you a birthday spanking. Fifty swats is really gonna burn your ass, old man.”

“You plan to kiss it better?”

“Don’t get me all worked up, you jerk!”

“Mmmmm….I kind of like the idea…” Roy’s voice dropped an octave and in Resembool sweat began to pop out on Ed’s forehead. “Let’s put that big mouth of yours to good use.”

“Fuck you!”

“The sooner the better,” smirked the birthday boy. “Good night!”

“HEY!”

“Yeah?”

“Go ahead and tell ‘em tomorrow. Y’know…tell the press about the wedding.”

“I’d rather do it with you here.”

“Nah, don’t wait,” Ed was adamant. “They see that black eye I gave you they’re gonna think the worst. It’s important, Roy.”

“Will do.”

The evil cackle sounded in his ear one more time. “And Garfiel says you need to brush on neutral face powder to set your foundation—and blend, blend, blend!”  
###  
Somewhere, far to the east, a grand old lady was laid to a well-deserved rest after a night where old friends sang and wept and laughed and told stories about her. In the corner, a tired-eye’d young woman sat scribbling down every tale, her brother’s long arm draped comfortingly around her slim shoulders.

Somewhere, far to the east in a stolen moment, two old grieving friends, close as siblings, hugged each other in Granny Pinako’s pantry just before daybreak. They had met by chance—that’s what they told themselves. Just checking to be certain there was enough coffee for the mourners and friends who would be coming to the house after the graveside memorial. “Don’t cry,” he whispered as he buried his face in her hair. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss he’d tried to avoid for the past fifteen years. 

Somewhere, far to the east, a woman went upstairs and roused her husband, who had taken a few hours rest, knowing how busy they would be today. She tugged down his trousers without a word and rode Pitt desperately, biting back her cries. The good doctor was not at all surprised. Life has a way of seeking to fulfill and replace itself when a loved one dies. 

Somewhere, far to the east, a man disappeared alone for several hours. When his older brother found him, he was weeping silently. “S’ okay,” his older brother told him, misinterpreting his sibling’s misery for grief over their shared loss. “It’s all gonna be okay in time”.

All Alphonse Elric could say, over and over, was “never…never…”  
###  
It was well past midnight and the presses were humming overtime at the printing house of Dickon and Howe and Sons. Earlier that day a blonde tornado ripped its way through the front office, screeching obscenities, swinging a pink leather handbag and threatening on pain of litigation for breach of contract that a new book by Kelley Winchell would be out in the bookstores this November, the damage to the original layouts of Fire and Vice not withstanding.

Mr. Cameron Howe—one of the ‘and Sons”---was well-educated, soft spoken and a man of quiet refinement. He found the author’s strong-arm tactics offensive and the author herself personally repulsive. Kelley Winchell was a cash cow but her imperious behavior had worn his patience thin, His father, Mr. Howe senior, had urged him to ‘keep an open mind’ about the popular biographer but it galled him to have even the ‘and Sons’ part of his title associated with such scurrilous efforts as Fire and Vice. He approved of Mustang’s sweeping efforts to improve education and regretted he had been too old to attend the Hohenheim Academy when it opened. 

A few evenings ago a crew cleaning out the warehouse had brought a box of miscellany to his desk to determine if it was rubbish or lost inventory. One of the new chaps, a tall fellow called Curtis, had handed him a sheaf of yellowed galley proofs for what appeared to be a children’s book. “Found these while oiling the backup press. Printing plates found too. Trash this or not?”

A cursory glance gave him a jolt. “What the devil…?” He flipped through the stack and his mild brown eyes went wide in disbelief. After a little while Curtis harumph’ed at his elbow, asking again if Mr. Cam wanted this tossed out with the rest of the night’s trash. “Show me the plates, will you, Curtis?”  
It was a treasure, more precious than the gold of Xenotime. It was very nearly ancient and rare and wonderful and the more noble side of Cameron Howe’s soul fretted that it would not be gentlemanly to ever let this manuscript see the light of day. Surely something this dreadful would have been burned years ago or consigned with the piles of unsolicited manuscripts in the warehouse that somehow never got thrown away or responded to.

It was a children’s book. Correction—it was a book aimed at a children, rather like the way a Lee-Enfield assault rifle might have been aimed at a village of Ishballans years ago. The date on the yellowed cover letter was 1916 and it was scrawled in lavender ink. The writer implored his father’s publishing house to please consider her very first children’s book for publication. It was signed ‘Maud Kelley Winchell’ and was titled “Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf”. To his horror, there were several sequels in the pile: “Buckety-Buckety’s Special Friend”. “Buckety-Buckety’s Dress-Up Day”. By the time

Cameron Howe read the final entry, “Buckety-Buckety Goes To The Ball”, the night crew was checking in on him to make sure he was still breathing. The pretty girl, Chris, brought him a cup of coffee and asked if he was all right. “All right?” He beamed at her, wiping the tears out of his eyes from laughing non-stop for the better part of an hour. “All right? I’m BRILLIANT!”

A few minutes later, Curtis returned to the office. “Sor, I got some sketches what fell off that stack o’ sheets, there. Want ‘em?” He snatched them greedily out of the young man’s hands and had to bite back a crow of delight. It was Buckety-Buckety in all his loathsome glory, in an evening gown, fluttering fake eyelashes at his beloved Wibbles the Wolf. He gave Urey Curtis a cash bonus on the spot and ordered him to secrecy. 

Cameron Howe didn’t tell a soul. In fact, he had planned to print out a few copies from the discovered plates and give it as a gag gift to the other ‘Sons’ in the publishing firm, but that was before Kelley Winchell roared through his office and clouted him in the head with her purse. He glanced at the calendar, then at the clock. “I can manage a limited run in paperback.” He turned to his crew. “Crank ‘em out!”

It would take the whole night, but he would drive the three-hundred-copy limited run over to the book stores in the morning, stopping by the bank to deposit a check in the company account to cover the printing expenses. It was a chunk of his inheritance well spent indeed.

So Kelley Winchell had smacked him with her purse and demanded that her newest release hit the streets on Mustang’s birthday, eh?

So be it.  
###  
Roy glanced at the bedside clock and frowned. He had a radio interview first thing in the morning with Donal Samuelson to discuss the gala and announce his impending marriage to Ed. He’d prefer to have Ed with him but it couldn’t be helped. He rolled over to Ed’s side of the bed and stared at the ceiling.   
“I’m fifty years old.” 

Fifty years and ten minutes, to be precise. He’d made his appearance a little before 3 a.m. in a military hospital. His mother died at 2:57 a.m. They had had to use forceps to deliver him since she had ceased to push anymore. “Worst day in your father’s life, kid,” Aunt Chris had told him. 

If Hughes had been here, he’d have gotten Roy drunk. If Ed had been here, he’d have wrapped himself around Roy, inside and out, and left him sweat-soaked, breathless and smiling. If the kids had been here they would have dragged him out of bed for a middle of the night feast of cake and champagne in their robes and slippers, accompanied with silly presents and funny hats and laughter. If his team had been here the traditional bottle of Stray Dog would have passed from hand to hand and the usual round of comic toasts and dedications would have been made amid roars of drunken glee from everyone except Hawkeye.  
Instead he was fifty years and ten minutes old and the room was silent. He sighed, put out the light and buried his face in Ed’s pillow….

The phone rang—his private line.

There was a familiar, raspy voice on the other end. “Roy-boy.”

“Aunt Chris? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong with me, kid.” He heard the drag of a cigarette. “But I bet there’s something wrong with you—and don’t give me any shit about how you’re fine. You haven’t hit fifty before. I have, so shut up and listen.

“All that shit you hear about getting old is bullshit, Roy. Yeah, your body gets more aches and pains—but let me tell you the good part: once you hit fifty—you REALLY won’t give a shit. You’re not the ‘golden boy’ anymore. You’re not a greenhorn pissant, like that bitch in Briggs Mountain used to call you. You got impunity. You don’t answer to anybody but yourself. You’ve done your time. You got the scars. You can do what you want, say what you want and tell the world to go to hell if you want to.   
“I want you to take a good, hard look at yourself, boy. Think about something more than just the damn country. You’ve put it right. It’s gonna run fine because you made a good strong foundation. You used to say you wouldn’t mind dying in a ditch for your country? FUCK THAT SHIT. You’ve give Amestris anything and everything. From now on, start thinking about what Roy wants. Marry Ed. See the world. Because your life is now about half over. There’s a new hand of cards being dealt you. Make the best of it. You hear me?”

“Yes ma’am!”

“And one thing more…this might have been the worst day of your dad’s life….but it was the best day for me. I got you.” Roy was certain he imagined the sniff he heard on the other end of the phone. “I love you, you little bastard. Now get some rest!”

…..TO BE CONTINUED…..


	13. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money changes hands behind the scenes—and the scene changes for Roy’s 50th Birthday Gala as a musical salute to President Mustang goes horribly, horribly wrong….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: ‘The musical salute was based on a poem written by Nochick_Fics, which I rearranged as lyrics with her permission and added my own Ed verses. Thanks, Chickie, for the inspiration!! ::hugs!::

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 13: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT???”  
By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

Over coffee and donuts, Heymans Breda cleared his throat. “Let’s go forward on the assumption that today is going to be an absolute cluster-fuck, okay? That means it can only get better.”  
The motion was carried with no opposition. “Right. Once this is done, we get a bottle and get shitfaced. Dismissed!”  
###  
Breakfast was a rare treat—smoked salmon imported from the icy waters of Briggs Mountain, courtesy of Major General Armstrong. “I don’t care if you’re fifty—you’re still a greenhorn pissant -- and I still loathe you only slightly less than my younger brother”, the card read. Roy saluted the Ice Queen and smirked into his coffee…

“So…the losing commander should pay a forfeit to the winner. Is that what you are suggesting?” Roy offered Major General Armstrong a confident wink. “That could potentially violate codes of conduct, Ma’am. It could mean…anything.”  
“This is strictly between you and me, Colonel. I’ve been wanting to punch that smirk off your idiotic face.”  
“So this wager does not exclude…physical contact, you’re suggesting?” he purred seductively.  
“You revolt me. You don’t deserve the privilege of touching my body.”  
“What if I win? The Briggs troops are outstanding—but nobody is invulnerable.”  
The smile above her mug of grog was confident and nasty. “You won’t.”  
And he never had beaten her, a fact that she taunted him about more than once. Each year after the battle was conceded to Briggs Roy would meet with Armstrong in the War Room, presumably to review the field reports and determine how Mustang’s troops had been bested. Nobody really knew what when on behind those closed doors. There were rumors, of course. Mostly they involved manacles and leather dildos and possibly riding crops, none of which were used on the victorious commander. No one ever found out and no rumor had ever been proven as fact—although it was noted that Mustang always looked a little tired and uncomfortable on the long train ride home.  
After her most recent victory over him a year before The Promised Day, she had actually implied that if he lost to her again she might require him to own up to the rumors that ran riot behind Mustang’s back. “Nobody rises that quickly to the top on his own two feet, Colonel. I’ve heard you done a lot of overtime on your knees. Your meteoric rise to the top would bear out my suspicions. When the Briggs troops capture your men again next year,” her voice was low and threatening, “I’m going to find out exactly how you’ve done it.”  
“What—you don’t’ believe that it was my leadership and organizational skills?”  
She held up her sword before him. “I think it was…a more direct approach.” She began to slide her blade in and out of the scabbard in a gesture that left little room for misinterpretation.

Seemed like an eternity ago.  
Olivier Armstrong had kept their game of forfeits secret, and while he was no longer involved in the Spring Maneuvers it amused him to think that his current officers had no idea how high the unofficial stakes used to be between Mustang’s troops and Brigg’s Mountain in the war games—although with Colonel Hawkeye commanding—  
”It would never happen. Never in a million years. Colonel Hawkeye would never allow it…probably.” He shook his head, dove into his breakfast, preferring not to dwell on the outcome if the two notorious military valkyries ever came to blows.  
He was dabbing fresh butter on his muffin and imagining slathering it on a pair of buns far more appealing when the butler discreetly interrupted his pornographic reverie. “Sir, I believe you were recording a segment of that children’s reading program this morning after your interview with Mr. Samuelson?”  
Oh, hell. I forgot. And Sheska’s too busy to remind me. What do they want?”  
Sebastian handed Roy the phone. After a few minutes of listening Roy’s dark eyes twinkled dangerously. “I see. Well….under the circumstances I think we can work something out. I’ll see you in an hour, gentlemen.”

He was still smirking during his morning interview with Donal Samuelson when the topic of his opponents in the upcoming election were discussed. “So far, no-one has openly declared to oppose you. I have a strong hunch this is going to change once the festivities are over. How do you feel about that, sir?”  
“I’m ready for the challenge,” Roy told the newsman confidently.  
“Do you expect your opponents to come from the military or from the civilian sector?”  
“Well, Donal, if a candidate meets the qualifications and is prepared to go into this for the fight of his or her life, it hardly matters. The question they should be asking themselves is this: do they have the best interests of the Amestrian people at heart? Do they honestly want to serve the people? Do they understand this is a commitment that will consume the whole of their life—even put their safety at risk—because you can’t go into this without being willing to give the whole of yourself and your life, even sacrificing many of the simple pleasures of one’s personal life and privacy.”  
“Speaking of which—I understand from your press secretary that there is going to be an announcement in today’s paper regarding your personal life—a very special announcement. Mr. President, you and I have known one another for years—I don’t think anyone has followed your career as closely as I have, so if you don’t mind….would you consider breaking the story here for our morning listeners?”  
Roy’s smirk changed to a genuine smile. “I supposed I owe you a scoop after all these years of tailing me, Donal. All right. I had planned to announce this with my partner, Edward Elric, but last night he and our children were in Resembool saying farewell to their grandmother, Dr. Pinako Rockbell---“  
“—yes, we aired her obituary on the news this morning---“  
“---indeed, and it was well done. We appreciate that tribute. After talking last night with Edward we agreed that I would go ahead and announce this morning that Edward and I will be married this spring when the Institute goes on break for a week.”  
“You’re getting married in the middle of the first election campaign? Don’t you think the voters may see this as a bid for public approval?”  
Roy chuckled. “I had told Edward years and years ago that, in light of past events, I would leave the decision up to him. He had come to the conclusion during a recent research trip to the Eastern Kingdoms and formally proposed to me in front of our family. Our son and daughter travel a good deal, and the four of us decided that the spring interval was the best time. Naturally, Edward and I would prefer a quiet family wedding---“  
“—but this is the first time our nation’s leader has ever married while at the helm as Fuhrer or President, making this a state occasion.”  
“Indeed. There will be compromises from both points of view. Still, this is something I am looking forward to in the year to come and I find on my fiftieth birthday I can’t wait to see what the next half-century of my life will bring.”  
“And slimming down to get into that white wedding dress?” Donal teased.  
“Only after the fire brigade puts out the blaze I’m about to make of your suit, Donal.”  
###  
“There’s common sense—and then there are common cenz.” A sheaf of green had been folded into a bouquet of roses for each of the Altoid sisters two days before.  
Their father was a practical man with bills to pay, He read over the script changes. He examined the costumes. They were within his concept of the bounds of decency. “It’s all in good fun,” he’d been assured. And, to his thinking, Mustang was soft on foreigners—too damn cozy with the Drachmans and the Cretans. He grunted in approval.  
A two finger bag of contraband smokeable herbs was delivered to Duke Brubeck. In lieu of rolling papers he found a folded bindle stuffed with green bills. Brubeck peered over the rims of his shades and shook his head. He wasn’t going to get involved. He wasn’t going to narc on the senders to those straight arrow military types. Fuck it. He’d show up, play some riffs and then cut out and light up some free weed.  
The Maestro nodded at the new score, its pages book marked with crisp banknotes. The ballerinas giggled and agreed to dress up and sing along, especially when they found handfuls of bright coins in the toes of their dancing slippers. The youth symphony only knew they’d been asked to provide accompaniment to a comic patriotic salute to the president. The score was simple—the tune old and familiar.  
Sherman Lehrer? “I’ll pay you for the privilege. What about the blonde twat?”  
“ She doesn’t need our help. She’ll do it all on her own, believe me.” Thus the Ice Cream Blonde’s bouquet contained only hothouse greenery although arrangements had been made to make sure that several bottles of Miss Turlough’s favorite brand of vintage bubbly would be iced to perfection in her dressing room.  
A warehouse behind the Central Times office provided makeshift rehearsal space. “Girls, all you have to do is sing on queue and look pretty,” Sherman instructed them cheerfully. “ Meanwhile, Maestro Williams and the orchestra churned through the patriotic air and none of Breda’s team was any wiser. “They sound great, don’t they?” Falman was smiling now. The Maestro had stopped his whinging and nit-picking and the rehearsals went smoothly and without bloodshed.  
“Y’know…we might just pull this off,” Breda told him, slapping the taller man on the shoulder.  
###  
Kelley Winchell’s nails gleamed in a shade that the beauty-shop girls had come to call ‘cocksucker pink”. It suited the wearer very well indeed. She spent the morning being coifed to perfection, lacquered and buffed and powdered and perfumed. Her smirk was now being lightly touched up with a matching lipstick and after her assistant had paid the bill for her overhaul she stepped into the November sunshine and drew a deep breath. “I’m ready for a bit of luncheon,” she gushed enthusiastically. “Nothing too heavy. Don’t want any extra pounds for the camera at the gala tonight.”  
“Il Gattina is right around the corner,” the long suffering Matilda pointed out. It would have cheered her heart to see her loathsome employer snubbed at Miss Hughes’ restaurant. She’d even risk getting hit by a flailing handbag if only to see Miss Winchell’s sedan spattered with garbage again. Besides, the soups were the best in town and today was the chicken-with-barley with half a sandwich special—just the perfect thing for a blustery day.  
“I’d rather starve,” Kelley snapped. “That young woman is unbearable.’ She stalked towards her car and then she paused. “I know just the thing. Take me to Barnes and Walden Books. I’ll have a coffee there and you can run out and bring me a to-go salad from Mustang’s. That way I won’t have to see the old floozy and lose my appetite. I just bet she’s got her fat ass over at the corset shop getting winched into a shaper so she won’t look like a sack of potatoes when Roy-boy walks her to her seat at the gala.” The image of the corset-maker yanking strings with her foot in the middle of Chris Mustang’s backside brightened her mood considerably. 

That buoyant mood crashed with an audible thud as soon as Kelley Winchell entered the bookstore. Her purse—well stuffed with grimy lipstick tubes and leaking powder compacts and a half-dozen notebooks—bombed to the floor, eliciting an angry chorus of “shhhssshhhhh!” from the customers engrossed in the café area. They were gathered around the wireless set that ordinarily played Radio Capital’s programming but instead was tuned to “Mother’s Day”, which featured special programming aimed at women and their children. Many Centralians would switch over to ABC Blue during the news on “Midday Amestris” to hear the “Barnes and Walden Storytime” segment. It featured famous film and radio celebrities and popular newsmakers of the day reading from children’s books. Alphonse Elric had even appeared as a guest reading a charming book his niece Nina had collaborated on called “Fly, Ed, Fly!” It was adapted from an original story Elycia Hughes had written for Maes and Nina when they were much younger.  
The deep, sensual voice that purred out of the wireless made her helmet of teased blond hair stand up in shock.  
“….and Buckety-Buckety told Wibbles the Wolf ‘when you are sad, I am sad. I am sad-sad-sad, right down to my little-bitty bear toes. Come and have tea with me, Wibbles, and I will make you a cake with pretty pink sugar flowers and I will sing silly bear songs and we will do silly bear dances, and then you will----‘”  
A dictionary flew off the shelves overhand with great accuracy from much practice. The wireless set was knocked off it’s stand and the silky baritone of President Roy Mustang went silent.  
A dozen heads swiveled in her direction. There was a rumble of protest but Kelley was too furious to hear it. Before she could shriek out her fury the bookstore manager hurried to her side. “Miss Winchell? I’m so delighted you stopped by! Your new children’s book is just flying off the shelves! President Mustang was going to read The Alchemist and The Emperor’s Pearl this morning—he loved that book as a boy, I understand---“ Kelley Winchell’s mascara’ed eyes began to glaze over “---but since your storybook came out this morning we offered him a choice and he told us he’d be delighted to debut Buckety-Buckety on “Storytime”.  
Small flecks of foam appeared in the corners of her lipsticked mouth. “Wh—wh….where…d-did---?”  
“We had no idea this book was in the works or Barnes and Walden certainly would have set up a book signing and promotional tour for you, Miss---“  
“WHERE… ARE… THOSE… BOOKS??” The manager pointed to a prominent display where dozens of copies of “Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf” were prominently displayed. Kelley Winchell paled—and then she broke three fingernails snatching them off the shelf, clutching them to her overstuffed bosom as if she feared they might escape. She raced frantically back and forth to the check out counter until she had emptied the display. Slamming her handbag on the counter she fished for her checkbook.  
“May I see a picture ID---oh…that’s alright.” The manager held up one of the slim volumes and pointed to a hideous picture of a spotty, plump teen with thick glasses and a disastrous hairstyle meant to make the would-be author look sophisticated—a picture that had once been paper clipped to a manuscript that, as years passed, she was grateful had never seen the light of day. “Why, you’ve hardly changed a hair, have you, Miss Winchell?”  
###  
Backstage, Breda opened the note sent from the President, along with a case of scotch. “When this is over you have my permission to have a nervous breakdown. You’ve worked hard for it, you owe it to yourself, and no-one has the right to take it away from you. Do us all a favor and open the case AFTER the festivities are over.” He grinned to himself. It wasn’t smart to get boiled in the middle of the crisis, but as soon as it was over he and his crew would go someplace discreet and tie one on. It was just a shame that the President couldn’t do the same.  
No, Mustang had to sit up there in the Presidential Box, trussed up in evening dress like some north Drachman penguin. At least he had Gracia and Elycia and Maria Ross and even old lady Mustang up there for company. He was caught up in a maelstrom of half-dressed ballerinas doing leg stretches on the ladders, squabbling musicians, Altoid Sisters doing warm up vocals—  
\---and Gladys Turlough was nowhere to be found.  
Damn.  
Sherman Lehrer tapped him on the shoulder. “She’s in her dressing room. Says she has to talk to you before she goes out there. Damn broad is crying her eyes out.”  
Breda hurried down the steps, cursing under his breath. The door was ajar. “Uh…Miss Turlough? Miss Turlough?” He rapped gently and there was no answer. Nervously, Breda stepped inside.  
The door clicked shut behind him and locked. He could hear something being jammed against the door from the other side….  
###  
They were midway through the performance and Mustang was greatly relieved that things were going as smoothly as he had hoped. During intermission Hawkeye had joined them for refreshments but refused a glass of champagne. “Any word from Breda?”  
“None, sir—but the show is going smoothly. I can go backstage and—“  
Roy shook his head. “That’s not necessary, Colonel Hawkeye. Return to your post, please.” The chimes overhead indicated that the second half of the program was about to begin. This was opening with Professor Sherman Lehrer’s comical songs, followed by Duke Brubeck returning to accompany the Altoid sisters—and then Gladys Turlough would NOT be jumping out of a birthday cake. That had been a dead certainty, as was the firm promise that she would keep her breasts covered and her skirt down.  
The spotlight at center stage captured Donnel Samuelson who waved to the cheering crowd. “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen—Professor Sherman Lehrer---“ he paused to allow the wild applause to subside a little, “—in a salute to our Commander in Chief!”

The curtains parted and the Professor appeared in a black wig and a the uniform of an Amestrian colonel, snoozing behind a desk. The phone onstage began to ring loudly until an Altoid sister, dressed like Lieutenant Hawkeye, strode across the stage and tapped the Professor on the shoulder. “Sir…Sir? SIR!” The “Colonel” awoke with a start. “Sorry to disturb your nap but Bunny is on line two, Vanessa is on line three, Jeanette is on line four, and Elizabeth is on line five.”  
“Who’s on line one?”  
“The VD clinic, sir!”  
“Is it important? I don’t have the clap, do I?”  
The “lieutenant” turned to the audience. “With all those women calling,sir? I’d say you’ve got APPLAUSE!”  
“WOMEN!??” A loud angry voice was heard offstage and moments later an Altoid Sister dressed in black with a long red coat stomped across the stage, a large metal garbage pail under his arm. The garbage can was tossed to the actress playing Hawkeye. “Take care of my brother, willya? The Bastard n’ me gotta talk.” The girl playing Ed stomped up Leher. “MUSTANG! I’m getting really damn sick of you and your fooling around on me!”  
“Why Edward….just think of it as equivalent exchange! All those lovely ladies are well connected to powerful men. I give them candy. I give them flowers. I buy them lobster dinners—“  
“And come home with the crabs!”  
“Ed…Ed….now, don’t be jealous…it’s not like I can help it. I’m irressitable—“  
“---AND contagious!”  
Lehrer stepped out from behind the desk and burst into song:

I have to admit it’s annoying—when other men call me a prick—  
My good looks may intimidate them—but mostly they envy my---  
“--dictation, sir?”  
“NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!”

“Ed” shook his head and began to sing:

That uniform’s butch and it suits you--At home you sport satin and lace  
You trowel on cosmetics like plaster—to hide all those lines on your face!

The curtains rolled back to reveal two dozen ballerinas in uniform joining in as Lehrer launched into the chorus:

Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!  
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big---EGO!—out of sight

“Mustang” continued:

Men shun me when hitting the nightspots—Around me the ladies all flock—  
If my friends get jealous, well, screw ‘em! I can’t help the size of my---  
“---Cocktail, sir?”  
“NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!”

“Ed” strutted to the edge of the stage and sang towards the Presidential Box:

You think he’s a real ladykiller—pursuer of skirts, you’d suppose!  
The truth is, he’s raiding their wardrobes. He only likes girls for their CLOTHES!  
Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!  
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big---  
“EGO!”, yelled the crowd

—out of sight

“Roy” looked indignant and appealed to the audience.

I’ll find me some better companions—who won’t let silly things come between….us  
Like politics, sport—and especially—the phenomenal size of my---

“NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!” the audience roared on cue.

“Ed” was now swaggering around the stage as he launched into his final verse.

Roy keeps all his quirks in the closet—in spite of his ranking and class  
And the reason you won’t get rebuttal—he’s too busy waxing his---

“NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!” The actress playing the blonde lieutenant threw up her hands in disgust and marched off stage as they launched into the final chorus

Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!  
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big---

“EGO!”

—out of sight

The applause was deafening. 

……TO BE CONTINUED….  
Author’s Note:  
Special thanks to my very talented friend Nochick_Fics for allowing me to take her original poem about Roy and rework it as lyrics, adding my own Edwardian “rebuttals” . She is as generous as she is a wonderful storyteller---and whenever her Roy!Muse faces off in a poetry slam against my Ed!Muse it’s always a blast. Cheers, Chickie!---Aunty B.


	14. "THE SHOW MUST GO ON"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Breda, Sheska and Falman missing, Roy’s gala goes into a downward spiral of disaster upon disaster—but the real shock is Roy’s last birthday present : the identity of his rival in the race to the Presidiency…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: The lyrics to the “miniskirt’ production number written and performed by the author at Anime Weekend Atlanta in 2009. The verses from the “Birthday Song” are traditional from the Society of Creative Anachronism since the 1970’s

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 14: “THE SHOW MUST GO ON”  
By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

There WERE worse places to get stuck in the ladies’ lavatory. This one, at least, was clean. Unfortunately it was upstairs behind the lighting booth and with the noise of the show onstage nobody heard her beating on the door and yelling to be let out. In the end, Sheska sighed in resignation and dug into her handbag for some reading material. “Oh well…at least I’ve got someplace to sit down. But if Miss Turlough wasn’t being sick in here,” she fretted, “where on earth could she be?”  
###  
The business end of a bassoon was poking Vato Falman in the rump. It was too dark to see in the orchestra locker but from the odd way his shouts for help were echoing he was fairly sure there was a tuba in front of him. He kicked himself mentally. If Gladys Turlough was crying her eyes out and crumbling from the pressure of performing for the President, why would she have gone down into the practice room and hidden in the instrument locker? Her fur coat was in there, yes, and her distinctive perfume lingered in the air but as soon as Falman bent to pick up the coat the door slammed shut behind him and locked. Judging from the sound he heard afterwards a rolling rack of orchestra chairs had been pushed in front of the door, giving him no way to get out even if he could jimmy the door open.  
###  
”Chin up.”  
Elycia’s eyes brimmed with tears. A gloved hand slipped into hers and squeezed tightly. She glanced at Uncle Roy and he was smiling. He released her hand and applauded Professor Sherman Lehrer and the Altoid Sisters and the chorus who had been public ally mocking him from the stage. “That was horrible!” she whispered.  
“That was political satire. And rather mild compared to what I’ve heard before.” He turned his eyes briefly to her. “Don’t let them see your anger. Smile for me,” he winked at her now, “and never let them see they’ve hurt you. The show must go on—and right now you and I are center stage up here.”  
From behind, there was a grunt of agreement and Chris Mustang leaned forward. “Think of something else—like dumping the grease trap over that dame Winchell’s car.”  
“Or,” her mother added, “Miss Winchell finding out that Uncle Roy read her awful bear story on the radio.”  
Elycia couldn’t suppress a giggle. She’d aired it in the restaurant and had laughed so hard she’d feared she’d wet herself over Uncle Roy’s droll delivery of the dreadful prose, every sentence double dipped in a smooth coating of sarcasm. His performance had been the talk of the town and earned a round of applause. She glanced back to Roy and found she could return his smile wholeheartedly. “You would have been a great actor, Uncle Roy.”  
His smile deepened and he kissed her hand. “My dear, I think you’re beginning to grasp the full nature of Amestrian Politics.”  
###  
“Hey, where’s snow top and the book chick?” Brubeck glanced around backstage. “I ain’t seen buzz cut fat boy around either.”  
Donal Samuelson looked frantic. “What the hell is going on around here? Our director is gone—and where the devil is Miss Turlough?”  
Brubeck lit up a cigarette. “That broad is all curves and crazy angles—don’t seem to me like she’s bug out on a gig, though.” From behind the curtains they could hear the audience singing along with Professor Sherman, roaring with laughter. “My gig’s up next.” He slapped Donal on the shoulder. “Show’s gotta go on, man. Show’s gotta go on….”  
###  
A pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses were turned towards the pale man in the black tuxedo. He was applauding and smiling as if it meant nothing to him to be lampooned as a cross-dressing bisexual with venereal disease was all in a days’ work to him. The Hughes girl was clearly upset, though. That gave Kelley Winchell a small degree of satisfaction. How must it feel, she mused spitefully, to have your hand kissed by the same lips that sucked your father’s cock?   
“I’ll never know how you got your filthy hands on my book, Mustang….but I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I do…”  
###  
No windows. Door isn’t just locked—it’s jammed shut. There’s no phone in here to call out and the intercom isn’t working. “Could be worse,” Breda admitted to himself. “I could actually be stuck in here with Gladys Turlough.”  
Dispassionately, he assessed the situation. If someone were planning to shoot Mustang, Hawkeye and Ross were on point, plus a dozen or more of the security detail scattered across the theater. The Boss had his gloves on.   
He’d been called to the dressing room by a stage hand—he’d find out the kid’s identity and question him. A cursory examination of the dressing room revealed little information other than Miss Turlough’s preferences for dry champagne, chocolate covered cherries, movie magazines and menthol cigarettes. There was a platter of finger sandwiches with the crusts daintily trimmed off and a percolator of fresh coffee set out for Miss Turlough. There was also an unopened box of Xerxes Brand Condoms—prelubricated with reservoir tips—in the drawer of her dressing table. Havoc. You idiot! Breda was disappointed that his old friend had given in to temptation---and since the box was unopened Breda felt uneasy that Jean might wind up in more trouble than just cheating on Hawkeye.  
There was no sense wasting energy. Breda poured himself a cup of coffee, helped himself to some finger sandwiches and sat down to wait…  
###  
“What?”  
“It’s almost over.” Uncle Roy’s voice was soft and low as he applauded Duke Brubeck’s encore. The jazz pianist and his quartet had brought the tone of the evening back to a more civilized theme with his six minute performance of “Burning Man Suite”, written for the guest of honor. It was complex listening and Uncle Roy seemed to enjoy it very much, rising now and nodding to the jazz master who flipped the President a smile and irreverent salute, which Mustang returned. “What did you think?”  
“I think I like the Altoid sisters better,” she admitted, preferring their close harmonies, catchy melodies and swing rhythms to Brubeck’s more sophisticated sounds.  
“They’re coming up next with an encore. Unfortunately, they’re coming on with Sherman Lehrer again. Brace for impact.”  
Elycia was ready. “Chin up,” she told him with a smile that faltered at the sound of a patriotic fanfare from Maestro William’s orchestra. “It can’t be as bad as the last one, can it?”

The Altoid Sisters were revealed as the curtain opened and Margi. Maci and Mazi appeared in State Military uniforms. Mazi was back in the Riza Hawkeye wig. Margi, who had played Ed in the previous sketch, now wore thick-rimmed black glasses and a mousy brown hairstyle, while Maci sported a short black crop and a beauty mark under one eye. Behind her, Elycia heard Ross fumble for the opera glasses provided in the box. “Wait a minute….is that supposed to be me?”  
“I’m afraid so, Ross. And I don’t believe Sheska is going to find this amusing, any more than Colonel Hawkeye,” Roy affirmed.

“Sheska” saluted the audience:  
When questioned about his ambition to become Fuehrer, Roy Mustang brashly proclaimed that when he ascended to power, “all female officers will be required to wear TINY MINISKIRTS, much to the chagrin of First Lieutenant Hawkeye and to the delight all the men on his staff. The reason this decree was never enforced has been a classified millitary secret…until now…  
When just a lowly Colonel, Mustang proudly did declare:  
“Soon as I’m appointed Fuehrer there will be some changes here  
Commencing with the blue fatigues the girls are forced to wear  
Those hems are on the rise!”

Dressed again as President Mustang, Professor Sherman Lehrer stood up behind the same prop desk again and burst into song:  
“Despite persistent rumors, I’m as straight as any guy—“ 

The Professor glanced up to where Gracia and Elycia were sitting beside Roy in the Presidential box. “Just ask Hughes!”

“Famed for stealing every girlfriend who attracts my roving eye  
So ladies, ditch your trousers and prepare to show some thigh  
Your hems are on the rise!”

From behind the desk popped up a quartet of chorus boys dressed like Falman, Breda, Havoc and Fuery. The vague suggestion that they had been below the desk servicing their superior officer was implied by their slightly disheveled appearance and misbuttoned uniforms.  
“Glory, Glory hallelujah!  
Hems are risin’, what’s it to ya?  
Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya  
Your hems are on the rise!”

“Ross” and “Hawkeye” leaned in close and winked broadly at one another:

“Now, Hawkeye told Maria Ross, “This order is absurd,  
There’s no way they can enforce it, Mustang hasn’t got the nerve  
Being useless ain’t his biggest fault-the man’s a total perv  
Whose mind is on our thighs.

Let’s edit it a fraction, then we’ll post it to his tray  
Change the gender of the pronoun in the rule announced today—“

A tenor soloist in a bald wig cap and a thick blond mustache crawled out from under the desk, struck a muscular pose and gestured towards the Altoid sisters:

“Sure enough, he didn’t read it, he just signed it anyway  
With great salacious sighs…”

The chorus rang out again, with a bevy of unformed ballerinas goose-stepping up the aisles of the theater. Ross shot her President a sour look. “It was a joke. I told Havoc and Hawkeye I was kidding,” the President assured her. “Although I’ll be very interested in finding out how the hell anyone found out about a private joke.”  
“Sir, I assure you Colonel Hawkeye---“ Ross began heatedly before Mustang cut her off.   
“Had to have been Major Havoc. Easy, Ross. It’s no big deal.”  
“Sir, with all respect, they’re making a fool of you.”  
“Comes with the job. At ease, Ross.”

“Hawkeye” began her solo:

“Their eyes beheld the glory as those hems began to rise  
They proclaimed their admiration of those ankles, calves and thighs  
Half the staff broke out in nosebleeds, Kain and Jean were paralyzed  
At miniskirts—on….guys???!!??

And all the MEN on the staff cried as one voice?”  
“HELL, NO!”  
“And all the women on the staff cried as one voice?”  
‘HELL YES!!”  
“And Fuhrer Mustang cried—“  
“OH, SHIT!”  
“And Maes Hughes cried out?”  
From the proscenium arch above the stage an actor with a beard, glasses and wings like a Letoist spirit of grace descended from a wire, waving a handful of photographs.  
“ANYBODY WANT TO SEE SOME PICTURES OF MY KID??”

There was a gunshot sound effect and “Hughes” dropped to the stage. Elycia took in a sharp, horrified breath. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the stage but beside her she heard the frosty voice of Roy Mustang. “This has ceased to be amusing.”

The “Hughes” character got up, brushed off his wings and slung an arm around “Mustang”  
“It’s all right, Roy. I’ve still got your back.” He winked at the audience. “As usual!”  
“Roy” smiled back at him. “Good man, Hughes! Dead or alive, an officer never leaves his buddy’s….behind.”

The audience went berserk, whooping and cheering for nearly a full minute before the performers could continue…  
###  
In the wings Donal Samuelson glanced around frantically. Gladys Turlough was coming on at the end of this sketch and she was nowhere to be found. “Looks like your bird flew the coop, dude!” Brubeck told him sympathetically. “I was kinda hoping she’d pop out of the cake—“  
“I’ll get Margi to pop out in the Ed costume—she won’t have to change---unless you’ve got a better idea?”  
###  
“Goddamn flat tire!” The stage door from the alley was jerked open and banged shut. “Goddamn motherfucking-broken fan belt!” An astonished stage hand was rudely shoved out of the way. “Goddamn freezing out there—where the hell is my fucking coat??….goddamn icy sidewalk—ten FUCKING blocks I gotta walk in heels—what the hell is this shit??”   
It took several shoves and kicks before the upright piano creaked and rolled away from in front of the dressing room door.  
The lock clicked and Heymans Breda whipped out his sidearm and pointed it at the head of a very dirty and rumpled looking Gladys Turlough, who had what appeared to be motor oil stains all over her dress and hands.   
They stared at one another for several heartbeats. Then she snarled at him. “You ate my goddamn sandwiches???”  
###  
“No one dares to look up Armstrong’s kilt—the guy’s too big and strong  
Falman’s fetching in his spandex, tho’ his taste in shoes is wrong  
Heymans Breda’s in the guardhouse in a leopard print sarong  
More suited to his size—EVERYBODY!”

This time it was a golden banner bearing the lyrics of the chorus that dropped from the proscenium and the dead Hughes was conducting the audience in a grand sing-along of the chorus:  
“Glory, Glory hallelujah!  
Hems are risin’, what’s it to ya?  
Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya  
Your hems are on the rise!”

“Hawkeye” began to sing softly as the tempo slowed from the previous march:  
When Fullmetal read the order, Ed was blushing like a rose…  
He assaulted Fuhrer Mustang, kicked his tail and broke his nose…  
‘Cause his automail appendage looks like hell in pantyhose  
It's hard to find his size...”  
###  
“Lissen, tubby—I ain’t got time for this,” Gladys snapped. “You got your fat ass locked up in my dressing room. I got picked up by a taxi that got a flat tire AND broke a belt and had to walk ten blocks IN HEELS without a coat. I gotta go on in about three minutes and I’m RUINED!”  
Breda shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Miss Turlough! We can find you another dress—“  
“FUCK the dress!” she bellowed. “I’m a professional! Outta my way!” She pushed past Breda and stomped up the steps, patting her blond hair into place and headed for wings. Breda stared after her. He smiled.   
“Damn….what a woman!”  
###  
Margi Altoid had just delivered a comic rant in her Edward Elric costume and planted a huge kiss on the lips of “Roy Mustang” as planned. After a thunderous ovation, she slipped backstage and attempted to crawl inside the giant pasteboard birthday cake that was to be wheeled into the middle of the stage.  
A pointed toed pump caught her right in the midsection and she was yanked inside. There was a scuffle, but it went unheard by the stagehands. “Margi? Are you in there?” Donal Samuelson stage-whispered as loudly as he daired. There was a bumping sound and a muffled voice from inside. “Good girl! We’re pusihing you out on stage in three…two…”  
###  
Roy swore softly under his breath as the cake rolled into view, pushed by Samuelson as emcee. The cast of the “Miniskirt Army” sketch marched out onto the stage.  
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!  
May the candles on your cake--Burn like cities in your wake!  
Your demise will not be far—now you are the age you are!  
All your foes will wail and weep—slay them all, but spare the sheep!  
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!  
Don’t forget what you should learn—first you loot and THEN you burn---***

“STOP THAT! Stop it right now!” A very furious Gladys Turlough kicked her way out of the birthday cake, crawled out and angrily slapped Professor Sherman across the face. “Show some respect!”  
Her evening gown was torn and grimy. Her hair was a rat’s nest and her makeup was smeared. “Lissen to me!” she yelled. “Some rat-bastards have been tryin’ to make this night a mess. This wasn’t the way we rehearsed it—none of that dirty stuff about Mr. President. It was…it was ….nice, ya know? ‘Cause he’s a nice man. He really is.”  
She shielded her eyes from the spotlight and peered up to the Presidential Box. “Mr. President? I’m sorry I’m late. My car broke down. I tried to fix the fan belt with one of my stockings but it didn’t work. Maybe I coulda made these guys behave if I’d got here on time. I still wanna sing, though. Is that okay?”  
Roy rose and bowed to the acrtress, smiling warmly. “Miss Turlough, I’d be honored.”  
Grease smeared across her nose, one earring missing, Gladys Turlough stood straight and lifted her breathy, little girl voice, gesturing for the crowd to join in:  
“Happy birthday to you—Happy birthday to you!  
Happy birthday Dear-President-Mustangggggggg----  
Happy birthday toooooooo youuuuuuuu---AND YOU’VE GOT MY VOTE!”  
###  
“More champagne?”  
Sheska shook her head, reaching for the Stray Dog. The theater was emplty except for the cleaning crew. Once the gala was over a house search quickly freed Falman and Sheska. “Who do you think was behind all this?”  
“That Sherman guy. Whatta putz!” Gladys was snugging back into the folds of her beloved mink.   
“I think it was the Maestro,” Falman corrected, accepting a cup of coffee with a splash of scotch to foritfy it.”  
“We’ll leave this to the investigations team. No real harm has been done—“ Roy began but Hawkeye cut him off.  
“Sir, what if they had tried to kill you?”  
“Well,” he sighed, “they didn’t. It was tasteless—at least the parts about Maes—but noththing I can’t live down.” He glanced at Donal Samuelson. “I believe your listening audience had quite a few shocks tonight. May have a rough time with your network censors.”  
Donal smiled expansively. “I’m sure they’ll forget all about it when they see tomorrow—no, today’s headline story.”  
Roy took a sip of scotch. “Really?”  
“Yes, really. Your first political opponent declared their candidacy twenty minutes ago. It will be all over the wires before breakfast.”  
Roy looked amused. “Let me guess. Major General Armstrong has been my rival for years. She’s ready to challenge me for the presidency at long last.”  
“That’s where you’re wrong…Roy.” Donal Samuelson smiled. He slipped on his winter coat and straightened his fedora.

“It’s me. Have a good evening!”

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	15. "WORSE THINGS TO BETTER PEOPLE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : Havoc is in hot water when Hawkeye is called in for a shot of penicillin and a lecture about VD, while Maes returns from his great-grandmother’s funeral hell bent on an epic drunk. Back at the Presidential Palace Ed’s birthday present for Roy is delivered---in a vat of liquid nitrogen??

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 15: “WORSE THINGS TO BETTER PEOPLE”  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Five minutes after she left Dr. Knox’s office Riza Hawkeye reviewed her short list of items that needed to be attended to for the day.

Item 1: Investigation of the events that occurred during the Presidential Gala.   
Granted, no actual harm had been done. The President’s life had not been in danger…but that was beside the point. Three members of the team had been detained, delayed, or otherwise caught off guard during the evening. As soon as Jean got back from Resembool a full staff meeting would be scheduled, and Hawkeye suspected it would be conducted in full military fashion in an area far enough from the press and the household staff that might be alarmed at the sound of President Mustang in full-on Bastard Mode™.   
Nowadays there was a huge staff of men and women who were paid well to make certain Mustang’s orders were followed to the letter. Jean called them HC’s, short for High Crapers. “As in, if Mustang says ‘Crap!’ they ask ‘how high, Sir?’” However, the HC’s had no control over a non-government sponsored cultural event like the Gala. If Vato Falman could end up locked in a closet full of tubas and nobody looked for him to get him out, the Presidential Team would be the first of many to have their asses dragged over the coals. Hawkeye herself would do some of that raking, but first she would stand at attention in the ranks of her companions and face the fire of Mustang’s wrath.  
Item 2: Obtain references of the top ten best wedding consultants in Central City.   
Gracia Hughes volunteered to assist with finding someone to help coordinate the details of the Presidential Wedding—and unlike the disaster of the Gala would be strictly under Hawkeye’s management. “I know I can trust you with this,” Mustang had told her. It was not a compliment or a suggestion. It was a direct order. She would follow it obediently to the letter, regardless how she felt about the impending nuptials.   
Item 3: Make sure the construction alchemists had finished the details on the children’s gift to the President. Nina and Maes had been working on the plans for some time, holed up in the large guest bath down the hall from the Presidential living quarters. Mustang knew they were up to something and there were a lot of energy flashes and even more cursing going on behind the closed doors. Hawkeye was privy to the plans. Mustang would like them….probably.  
Item 4: Ed’s present.  
Had she been a different sort of woman her instinctive response to the gift would have been “ewwww”. It was in deep cold storage, in a small tank of liquid nitrogen. Presumably, it would be fine for the time being.  
Item 5: Escort the Elrics from the Aerodrome. The President wanted to meet his family, in spite of the security risks. She didn’t like it but she would do as she was ordered.   
Item 6: Replace the radio in the President’s secretarial staff office.   
As soon as Mustang heard the “Midday Amestris” hostess Eleanor announce that Donal Samuelson had been replaced by the returning Frank Archer, a spontaneous eruption of sparks caused the radio to burst into flames. The President’s comment? “Whoops.”  
Archer had been out of jail for years, having served only 18 months for his part in the security breach at the Palace 15 years ago when Edward first moved in. His inside informant, a valet named Claude, had been sent north to Briggs mountain under General Armstrong. He had been luckier than he knew. She didn’t gut him and throw his entrails to the wolves of the steppes. However, he became involved in some minor intrigues and the last anyone heard the General had stated “He’s serving under General Raven”. There was something about the odd look on Vato Falman’s face when he delivered the cryptic message that made Mustang disinclined to ask further questions.  
Archer had been on his best behavior since then, keeping a low profile and penning a series of highly readable “coffee-table books”, like “This Gilded Age”, “Jeweled Splendor of the Eastern Kingdoms”, “Table City: Stairway To The Gods”, and “The Lost City of Xerxes”. Lots of pretty pictures to flip through and the accompanying text was actually rather entertaining. He had been a guest on Radio Capital several times doing travel segments and no-one, save Mustang, had paid him any real attention.   
After the smoke had cleared and the charred remains of the radio hauled to the trash, Mustang had gestured her to his side. “So…Samuelson announces a bid for the Presidency and Frank Archer takes his place at Radio Capital.” His handsome face looked shrewd and thoughtful. “Interesting.”  
“Shall I investigate, Sir?”  
A gloved hand lifted in caution. “Easy, Hawkeye. Let’s not jump to conclusions…yet. However, keep an ear to the ground and coordinate with Madame Christmas. I want to know what they are up to.”  
Item 7: Dr. Knox—appointment, 07:00  
He had asked her to come in for an examination. “I hadn’t heard from you,” he told her gruffly. “You were to be contacted.”  
“I beg your pardon, Doctor. Who was supposed to contact me?”  
He began drawing up a syringe. “Are you allergic to Penicillium-type antibiotics?”  
She looked wary. “No, I’m not. Is there a reason—“  
“Roll up your sleeve, Colonel.”  
“Not until I have an explanation. Why do I need antibiotics? Have I been exposed to a health hazard?”

After she left the office, she pulled out her notebook, went over the seven items on her list and modified it.   
“Item eight,” she said softly under her breath. “Kill Jean Havoc.”  
###  
Havoc couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was definitely out of sorts with Maes Elric. Something out of character in the kid’s demeanor had Havoc on the alert.   
Maes was the one who was in a great hurry to get out of Resembool shortly after the reading of Pinako’s will the day after her funeral. He’d been fine up to that point, loving and supportive of his mother and step-siblings. Havoc had been smoking on the porch and had overheard Winry commenting that it would be a great time for Maes to move east from Central and open up shop with her at the automail clinic as an engineer. “Granny’s left him a nice piece of land. He can build a house there if he doesn’t want to move in with the rest of us,” she had told Alphonse. “I’m hoping Nina might come too, although she’ll probably stay and teach at the Hohenheim.”  
Sometime after the funeral Maes and Nina had been doing some alchemy out in the back yard. Maes had asked if he could take some material from an old reaping sickle that had been made from a bit of Al’s old armor. Winry hadn’t minded and so the brother and sister worked together out in the chilly afternoon air with a great deal of secrecy. Alphonse had gone out to check on them and had not come back until much later. When they all met together at supper, Maes was tense and uncharacteristically closed-mouthed and Winry looked very worried.  
Havoc was a little worried too. After all, he’d known Maes since he was a cheerful, milkshake-spitting, potty-mouthed rug rat with a penchant for running naked through the palace covered in mud or soapsuds or, on one memorable occasion chocolate pudding and beef gravy. Hawkeye had been more interested in puppies than kids so he’d come to feel like family to Maes and Nina Elric as much as their bodyguard. Now Maes was big enough to beat the crap out of Havoc, and if the dark expression on his face was any indication he was in one of those infrequent foul moods that made Havoc approach with caution.  
Havoc offered Maes a box lunch he’d bought at the East City Aerodrome. ‘Here. It’s better than it looks. Ham on rye with mustard and mayo packets. This one has pretzels, pickles and an apple pie turnover. You hungry?”  
Maes waved it away. “You eat it.” Nina shot him a sympathetic glance. Ed looked up from his newspaper, frowning. Maes normally would have eaten the lunch, the lunch box and Nina’s dessert as well. What was ailing the kid?  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ed asked bluntly.  
“Nothing.”  
“Bullshit. You aren’t eating, you aren’t running your mouth and you didn’t even say goodbye to your mother or Uncle Pitt or even Alphonse when you tore out of there.” He folded his paper and reached for the unwanted box lunch. “Rude as shit. That’s not you—that’s me Teacher raised you better than that. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”  
Maes didn’t glance at his father. “No…sir.”  
“You wanna tell your sister? You’ve been snapping at her all through the flight.”  
Wide golden eyes darted over, making brief contact with his sister’s anxious face. “I know. I’m sorry, Nitwit. I just….never mind.” The young man pulled out an electronics magazine and absorbed himself in an article about Tesla coils being replaced by vacuum tube transmitters. The magazine was upside down. The young man never seemed to notice…  
###  
Whenthe door of the discreet black staff car was opened by Havoc, Nina slid in and was immediately pulled into a close embrace by her beloved Poppy. Her reserve melted and she buried her face against the front of his heavy winter coat. He kissed the top of her head. “I’m proud of you. Alphonse told me you were very brave.”  
“I didn’t feel brave,” she admitted.  
“No one was the wiser. That’s what real bravery is all about.” As Maes climbed in, Roy’s arm reached around his shoulders. “Welcome home, son. I know your mother was glad she could depend on you through all this.”  
Maes gave him a queer look. “She didn’t need me.”  
Roy glanced at Ed who shook his head in an imperceptible ‘don’t ask’ gesture. Roy’s head barely nodded. “Well, I do, and I’m glad you to have you back so I can finally celebrate my birthday.”  
“Yeah, I read about that in the papers,” Ed was grinning now as he slapped his lover sharply across the shoulder. “What the fuck was that all about?”  
“I’ll be very interested to find out,” Roy replied darkly. “Hawkeye? Let’s go.”  
Havoc slipped into the front seat beside his lover. She didn’t even look at him. He dug in his pocket for a smoke, even if he couldn’t light up until they got out of the car  
“I hate cigarettes.”  
Hawkeye’s words dropped through the air like the blade of an axe across the neck of a condemned man.  
Ohhh shit.She knows. Havoc felt sick and it was a long time before he broke the silence. “My apologies, Colonel Hawkeye.” The.  
So did Havoc’s heart.  
###  
A callused finger chased the last crumbs from the dessert plate and then licked it clean. “At least one of my sisters is a genius in the kitchen.” Maes was smiling now, saluting Elycia with a grin that relieved his immediate family.   
“Alchemy began in the kitchen, or so we’re told.” Nina’s eyebrow inched up a fraction as she sipped her coffee. “You’re passably competent as an alchemist, brother. You might try your hand at the culinary arts. A bit of effort and I’m sure you would be a….masterbaker.”  
Roy nudged his lover. “I was hoping your scintillating wit might skip a generation.” Ed just grinned and shoveled down another mouthful of cake. It was dark chocolate filled with chocolate rum panache and drenched in a bittersweet chocolate glaze. When the fifty golden candles were alight, Ed had observed that if Roy didn’t have the breath to blow them out he could always beat them out with his cane. A snap from the President and the fifty flames were smugly extinguished. “You’ve outdone yourself, Elycia. Consider yourself hired to bake our wedding cake.” The young woman blushed and stammered that she didn’t have the decorating skill for such a grand occasion. “If that’s all you’re worried about, you can hire in a sugar artist to add the details if you like—but this, “ he gestured with his fork towards his now-empty plate,” by itself is as good as it gets. Ed and I don’t want a fuss. Whatever you make will be perfect Now then, Ed,” Roy turned back to his lover, “Sebastian tells me my birthday present has been hidden in the meat locker since it arrived. I’m going to assume it’s not the ice cream, right? What kind of treat do you have for us?”  
Edward suddenly choked on his coffee and began to stammer nervously. “It’s…ah…well…” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “It’s…um…not a dessert.”  
“No? Then what is it doing in the palace meat locker with the rest of the food?” Roy frowned and gestured for Collins. “Did you bring it down with the rest of the presents?”  
Collins nodded. “It’s right outside in the hall, Your Excellency. Shall I—“  
“NO!” Ed was looking frantic. “I…I mean,” he spluttered, “we can…y’know…do this later, right? I mean…KIDS! You’ve got to show Roy your present! C’mon, they’ve been working so hard on this project of theirs---“  
“Bring it in. Now.” Collins bowed, stepped out and wheeled the crate in. A thin mist trailed behind it. Sebastian bowed and offered the President a pry bar.  
Maes and Nina exchanged baffled looks. What the hell was their father getting so agitated over? And when the vat of liquid nitrogen was revealed, neither seemed any the wiser about its contents.   
There were a pair of insulated gloves and tongs included in the crate. Ed was babbling now. “Uh…really…Roy…you might want to open this---“  
“—right now,” Roy finished, tugging the gloves on over his scarred hands. “If you’re this unnerved about whatever’s inside it has to be one hell of a surprise.”  
And it was.   
Gracia peered inside. “What in the world?”  
All eyes turned on Ed. He shrugged sheepishly. “Well…..y’know…you said you always wanted a pony for your birthday when you were a kid …so…”  
Borrowing the tongs, Nina reached inside and retrieved a stoppered glass test tube. It’s frozen contents were milky and opaque. The young alchemist studied the vial with great interest.  
“What is it?” Elycia wanted to know.  
“Call it…’prepony’.” A corner of Roy’s mouth curved up with barely restrained mirth.   
Gracia looked puzzled. “Or maybe ‘antepony’?” Maes suggested.  
Nina was counting the vials. “Hmmmm, looks like about a dozen samples of ‘forepony’. Maybe ‘protopony’?”  
“I don’t get it.” Elycia shook her head,  
Maes winked at his father. “Wow, Dad. I’m impressed. Took a lot of…spunk…to…come …up with a gift like this!”  
Elycia was getting cross. “I still don’t get it. Stop beating around the bush. What is it, sir?”  
The word ‘beating’ sent Maes into hysterics. Nina tossed her brother a look of cool annoyance. “It’s equine ejaculate, Elycia. And if I’m reading the labels correctly these aren’t from Xing. These came from the Eastern Kingdoms.” She was smiling now. “Dad has brought some fresh bloodlines into Poppy’s breeding program.”  
Ed was crimson with embarrassment. “Uh…yeah. I..I mean…what do you get the many who has everything?” His hands gestured helplessly. “Nobody in the Kingdoms would let me take any livestock out of the country…so…well…”  
“Let me get this straight, Ed. You smuggled viable horse semen out of the Kingdoms?”  
“Yeah. Found an alchemist in Xing who worked with ice.”  
“How exactly did you get the samples?”  
Ed buried his face in his hands. “You really don’t want to know. And I really don’t wanna remember.” He glared at his children. “And for the record—I did NOT gather the samples personally—“  
“I’m confident you had a…hand…in procuring it, Daddy,” Nina quipped dryly.  
“I DID NOT!! I found a…there was this guy, okay? He knew how to…collect…”  
\--you mean you pimped out for a pony, Dad?” He pointed at his stepfather. “And he said you were the morally bankrupt one around here!”  
“The guy was Xingese horse breeder, goddamn it! He—he---“  
It would have been more amusing to keep needling their father but even Maes knew when to quit. He dug into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small box, passing it to Nina, who hemm-hemmed in an attempt to restore order. “Moving right along, gentlemen, Maes and I have two presents for you.” She gestured towards the second floor above them. “Maes and I have turned the big nursery bathing room into a Nihonese wooden bathhouse tub. Uncle Al got us the designs.” Something flickered behind her brother’s expression and his smile faltered. Edward missed it in his excitement. “Uncle Ling quite enjoys his. Maes and I made a few modifications so that—“ she blushed prettily “—so that Daddy can rest his leg on some moveable supports inside the tub. He—“  
“Are you saying---?”  
“---you’ll be able to float, Ed.” The hot, sly look Roy offered him suggested a world of potentially erotic opportunities that caused sweat to pop out on Ed’s forehead. “Can we use it tonight?” he asked quickly. When Maes nodded, Roy rose abruptly and pretended to yawn dramatically, peering at the mantle clock. “My, my, just look at the time. Ladies, no sense in heading out on a cold, wet night. Sebastian will set you up in the guest suite, Gracia—I’m sure the young ladies will want to sit up and talk half the night. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I feel like a long soak in a hot tub ---“  
“Wait!” Maes blurted out. He snatched the small box from his sister and held it out to Roy. “I…made you guys something.” He looked awkward. “Nina helped.”  
Roy opened the box, Ed peering over his shoulder. After a long, thoughtful silence Roy held up a gleaming band of polished steel. The salamander crest had been engraved upon it in a manner that looked like a man’s signet ring. “And I shall set your name as a seal and sigil upon my heart, for Love is stronger than Death,” Roy murmured, half to himself, half to Edward, quoting the Ishballan Desert Songs from the tattered book of forbidden love poetry that the ancient Sage Rumi had written for his companion Shams the Wayfarer centuries before. Fifteen years ago, before Edward had traveled to Drachma Roy had taken Ed on an unforgettable night ride, whispering the ancient erotic verses as they made love under the early summer moon.  
That had been in the first heady year of discovering one another. The flames had not died down since those days, and if Roy had believed in a god he would have given thanks. Instead, he offered silent gratitude to the only saint he believed in. Maes…in the Gateway you told me to stop mourning for you. You told me not to turn my heart into a cemetery. You said I could love—and would love again if I allowed myself to let someone in. Of all the bone-headed ideas you came up with in the years I knew you, that was the smartest thing you ever said to me, old friend. His eyes met Edward’s. His fiancée was grinning broadly at another steel band, a larger one which bore a Flamel crest. Remind me to buy you a beer when I see you again, Hughes. “You made them, son?”  
Maes nodded. “Nina did the signet details—but yeah. I made ‘em out of Uncle…out of the old armor. Piece of it was made into a reaping sickle. Used some of that for the materials.”  
Roy nodded slowly. Then he passed the ring to Edward’s son. “I’ll need you to keep this for me.”  
“Huh?”  
“That’s the best man’s responsibility, isn’t it?” A strong hand clasped the young alchemist’s shoulder. “There’s nobody else I’d want to stand beside me on my wedding day.”  
Maes instinctively glanced over at Colonel Hawkeye, Surely she would be the one Roy Mustang would choose as his witness on his wedding day, right? He saw her shake her head imperceptibly, as if to assure him she didn’t object. “You will stand with me, won’t you, son?”  
Maes closed his fingers tightly around the gleaming band. “Sure….Poppy.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll keep it safe.”  
Nina was stunned to hear her brother call Roy Mustang something other than “Uncle Roy” or “Sir” for the first time in his life. Before she could comment, her father was pressing the larger ring with the Flamel crest into her palm. “You’re always telling me over and over that sometimes the best man for the job is a woman, right?” Ed was smiling at her now. “Hang on to this for me…that is if you don’t mind standing up with your old man?”  
###  
He had loudly volunteered to take the night watch, even though he had been traveling with the Elrics and had earned a good night’s rest. After all, Havoc reasoned, it wasn’t like he could go home. Even if Hawkeye did let him in the icy silence would be more than he could bear. Maybe if she screamed and ranted like a normal woman they might have worked things out. “If she doesn’t shoot me, she’ll freeze me out. I’m fucked either way.”  
He was getting a cup of coffee in the pantry when he bumped into a frowning Collins, who was locking the door of the mahogany cellarette after everyone else had retired to their quarters. Davy Collins—another one of Chris Mustang’s strays that made good. “Yo, Davy! How’s it hangin’?”  
The earnest young butler seemed distressed. “Master Maes has made an early night of it, accompanied, I believe, by a full bottle of Dublith Dark rum.”   
Havoc bit down on his filter tip. “You sure?”  
“It is my responsibility to inventory the wine cellar and the drinks cabinet before retiring so that Sebastian can restock it.”  
“ Good way to tell if someone’s boozing on the sly, too.” Not good news. Maes Elric had no real head for liquor and made the most miserable drunk Havoc had ever had the misfortune to be puked upon by. It didn’t happen damned often but when it did nothing good came of it.  
“I was going to check on…him.” There was very little inflection in those words, but Jean Havoc, so unwise and unknowing about his own hear, didn’t miss the subtext. That and after years of considering Maes to be a surrogate family member he had always been aware of the deep, unspoken bond of friendship between Edward’s son and the boy who had taken a bullet for him so many years ago. Servant…young master…it meant nothing to Maes Elric. The kid followed his heart and his common sense and Jean loved him all the better for it.   
“Nah…he’s gonna be puking up his guts. I can handle it.” He offered a casual salute to the young butler. “  
###  
“Don’t drink alone, kid. It’s bad for your reputation.”  
The tall figure huddled on the rug before the bedroom fireplace didn’t stir, but the bottle at his side was only about a third empty. Maes may have gotten a head start but Havoc was reasonably sure he could prevent a bad hangover from becoming a catastrophic one.   
Havoc eased down on the rug beside the younger man and tugged gently at the bottle. Maes released it without argument. “Mind if I…?” Maes shrugged. Havoc took a deep pull, but when someone rapped softly at the door he corked it and put it out of sight. “Yeah?”  
“It’s me.”  
Maes lifted his head. In the flickering glow from the fireplace Havoc could see the boy’s eyes were wet and swollen. “Come!”  
Collins slipped inside, locking the door behind him. As Maes watched, the young butler removed his livery jacket and folded it neatly, laying in on an armchair. He knelt down and slipped his arm around Maes’ shoulder. “Maes….look at me.” The alchemist’s head swayed a little as he tried to focus on his friend’s face. “You know I can keep a secret.” He glanced at Havoc, who nodded in agreement. “Nothing leaves this room. Tell us what happened in Resembool.”

Havoc was snoring on the rug. Collins placed the empty rum bottle in the trash, placed a cushion under his soon-to-be-aching head and draped a spare blanket over his supine form.   
On the bed, Maes groaned aloud and Collins had just enough time to get a wastebasket to his bedside before his friend retched miserably one last time before falling back onto his pillow.  
“I ain’t goin’ back, Davy. She can’t make me go back there.” As he carried the mess away he heard a weary voice in the dark. “Hate her fuckin’ guts.”  
“Bullshit.” Collins returned to his friend’s bedside. He gently swept the messy fringe back from Maes’ sweaty forehead. “You never hated a soul in your life, Maes. “  
“I can try.”  
“Worse things happen to better people. Now shut up and go to sleep. We’ll sort this mess out in the morning.”  
One golden eye cracked open. “What…no goodnight kiss?”  
“IF you could brush your teeth without poking your own eye out—which I doubt.” Collins leaned down and dropped a swift kiss on his friend’s mouth, already slack with drowsiness and reeking of alcohol and vomit.  
A surprisingly strong hand grabbed the butler by the collar and yanked him down onto the bed. “All right, all right. Shove over. I’ll stay a bit.”  
“Mrshfgiggnnngrrr….snxxxzzgghhh….snxxzzgghhhhhhhhhh…”  
“Love you too.”

TO BE CONTINUED…….  
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Artificial insemination in livestock dates back to 1899, while nitrogen was first liquefied in 1883. Cryopreservation of sperm dates to the early 1950’s, but I chose to take a few liberties with the timeline so that Roy could have his ‘birthday pony”…er…ponies…


	16. "FIVE MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT...."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : It’s five minutes after midnight—all may not be right with the political future of the country or in Hawkeye’s relationship with Havoc….but for tonight, at least, things are going Extremely Well between Ed and Roy as they try out the new Nihonese bathouse Ed’s kids have designed for them

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 16: FIVE MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy Mustang and Edward Elric had left the world behind them, a world of recent losses and grief, of politics and gamesmanship. Outside the warm cedar wood doors it was a deadly game. The New Prosperity Era that followed the Promised Day was coming to a close. Amestrians, comfy and secure and clueless, had grown complacent in close to two decades of relative peace and plenty. A new face came to challenge the man who had changed the world. Even if Roy Mustang had sought out the desert sages or the wise men of Xing they would have told him not to push the river, but to care for his country and let events unfold as fate decrees.

Roy slipped out of his uniform and laid the world and its worries aside. The cool cotton of the yukata felt good against his skin. His body was humming with need, and it pleased him that after half a century desire tasted as sweet to him as it had in his cadet days. He had spent the nights of Edward’s absence as he had when his lover had flown to the Eastern Kingdoms and Xing, writhing in the dark, impaling himself upon a cold rubber phallus while plunging into the newest ‘Gate of Paradise’ that had needed replacing year after year. Each year Mr. Spenser had come up with a new invention, a new toy to console the separated lovers, although Edward balked at the pink rubber buttocks that were large enough to be mounted. Roy was not so particular and brought the item out and rode it ferociously until it split and tore. But as often as he might pour himself into a fist or toy, it was always with full knowledge that nothing—nothing—could rival the heat of his mate, the taste of his sweat and seed, the fingers that bruised as they clenched desperately, the automail toes that scrapped against his bare buttocks, or the mouth that greedily bit and sucked and licked and kissed and growled out such profane endearments.  
It was five minutes before midnight and Edward was home. Edward was home and Edward was his and the world could bloody well turn without Roy Mustang tonight….  
###  
Five minutes after midnight they were closing up the watering holes on the north side of Central. Chris Mustang stepped outside into the street for a smoke and to keep an eye on a slightly tipsy officer whom she had called a cab for. The officer had been taken aback by such forwardness, standing smartly erect and calmly assuring Chris that she was fine and her driving completely unimpaired. “Oh yeah? When was the last time you got hammered?” the old woman shot back, reasonably certain that the honest answer would have been ‘never’. “Make an old lady happy. Take the cab. It’s on me. Last thing I want to do is have to explain to my boy that I let a senior officer get behind the wheel after five shots and white wine chaser---and listen, doll—your head ain’t gonna thank you for mixing wine and scotch.”  
She paid the cabby double the fare and tip—in part to insure he kept his trap shut, but also to cover any cleaning bill should Colonel Hawkeye vomit all over his back seat. “Get some rest,” she ordered the slightly weaving woman as she guided her into the cab. As they drove off, she shook her head and flicked ashes over the thin dusting of fresh snow that was crusting on the curbside. “That Havoc oughta have his head examined,” she muttered aloud to no one in particular.   
She was about to head back in to count the night’s receipts when a bright, splashy poster caught her eye in the window of a pub across the street. It bore the clean cut image of a certain journalist familiar to anyone with a radio in Amestris and the words “SAMUELSON--A Better Man—For A Better Amestris” blazing above his head . Underneath the portrait (which artfully concealed a slightly receding hairline) was the added comment “TIME FOR A CHANGE TO GOVERNMENT BY THE PEOPLE” and in slightly smaller typeface “paid for by the committee to elect Donal Samuelson President”. The bartender, sweeping out cigarette butts, stood in the open door, noticed Chris Mustang studying the poster. He had known her for years and felt a little awkward but he didn’t feel the need to apologize for his personal politics. He nodded a greeting at the old woman. She cocked her eyebrow at him and flicked her ashes at his shoes.   
“May the best man win,” she told him with a sly smile that reminded him that she knew where all the bodies were buried among the downtown club owners. The pub owner ducked hurriedly back in and closed the door behind him, locking it tight against the rising chill.  
###  
Five minutes after midnight, the late-night news program on Radio Capital mentioned the formation of the Amestrian Populist Party, a small but outspoken group of reformists who advocated separation of the military and the government. “At a Populist rally in South City there was a surprising show of support for newly-declared presidential hopeful Donal Samuelson, who will be setting out on the campaign trail over the Solstice holiday to meet with his supporters. When asked if President Mustang shows any concern about the grassroots movement to oppose his military-backed administration, Presidential Spokesman Heymans Breda stated that’ the President believes that debate from different candidates is a sign of a healthy democracy’ and added that ‘if Mr. Samuelson stands as an endorsed political opponent, President Mustang looks forward to meeting with him on the campaign trail.”  
Frank Archer snapped his radio off and sucked down a mouthful of cold gin. In three days—just three days—he’d seen Samuelson’s posters begin to crop up in shop windows all over town. “Bet that just burns Roy’s lily-white ass,” he chuckled aloud. “Now let’s see if you’ve got the stones to carry through with it, Sammy-boy….”  
###  
Five minutes after midnight, Gladys Turlough finished her cocktail and glanced at her diamond wristwatch—a lovely item hand crafted in Xenotime. One hand trailed over a sumptuous breast, pausing to tweak a nipple that had, until very recently, had Jean Havoc’s mouth glued to it several times a week and in some wonderfully adventurous locations. Doing in the front seat of the Presidential car had been shivery fun—hopefully her Country Boy had located the pink silk panties she had lost under the seat. He could last forever—she could suck on that thing and it would get rock hard over and over again. Mmmmm….just thinking about his tongue down there made her so hot. “Five minutes after midnight,” she sighed. “Maybe he’ll come by after work.” Her hand now crept under her satin nightgown. She was already wet for him. She debated a moment before slipping a manicured finger in. “Well…it’s not like I’m going to wear out,” she sighed, picturing Havoc’s head between her thighs, his cute little goatee wet with her juices and his clever tongue sliding in just…everywhere. “I’m just revving the engines for him….”  
###  
Five minutes after midnight Sebastian moved noiselessly down the second floor corridor like a great cat, listening carefully. Colonel Hawkeye was off duty and offsite, leaving it to him to keep the household watch. That was fine with Sebastian. He preferred it that way. Blazing guns and stomping boots were never his style—but then there was a distinct difference between a military guard and a Black Ops assassin. “Sebastian’s like a dog fart—silent but deadly,” Master Maes had once observed when he was twelve and someone had attempted to shoot his stepfather at the Veteran’s Memorial wreath ceremony. Sebastian slipped in and out of he crowd like a phantom and the attacker had no more than drawn his pistol when a garrote of wire, fine as a hair, looped around the man’s throat and a very delicate, determined pressure and a soft whisper of warning persuaded the attacker to drop to the ground and surrender without a fight.  
Mrs. Hughes had settled in for the night in her accustomed guest room He had arranged for a warmed robe and plush slippers at her bedside and lots of fluffy towels for her morning shower. He made a mental note to ask Chef Ramsay to prepare a fruit plate and black coffee for her breakfast.   
A few doors down there was soft conversation in Miss Nina’s room. Likely she and Miss Elycia would sit up and talk much of the night—however he had warned Chef Ramsay to be prepared in the event of a midnight raid on the pantry. How both young ladies managed to gorge on sweets and maintain their trim figures was a mystery, to be sure.  
He frowned as he passed Master Maes’ room, where he had seen Collins slip inside an hour before. He frowned. Friendship was all very well, but once Collins became his apprentice a line needed to be drawn—and redrawn—between Family and Staff. The undue familiarity was unseemly and inappropriate, and he regretted that Master Maes did not seem to understand he was putting his friend’s career chances in jeopardy, particularly with the intimate nature of their friendship. He sighed and shook his head. It was, indeed, a good thing that Collins would be shipped off to Mrs. Bradley’s estate in less than a fortnight—sooner, if Sebastian could manage it.  
As he came to the end of the second floor corridors he paused. Behind the door was the newly redesigned cedar wood bath that the young master and mistress had created as a gift to His Excellency. Of course, Sebastian had insisted on inspecting it carefully for any potential security risks or safety hazards. All in all, it was nicely done. Earlier, Sebastian and Collins had lit the candles in the iron lanterns, heated the water and turned on the small indoor fountain that trickled musically over small pebbles in a large stone basin Miss Nina had arranged. Simple cotton robes called yukata had been laid out for His Excellency and the Professor, along with plenty of clean towels and a lacquered tray bearing an assortment of water-resistant lubricants procured from Spenser’s Emporium that might be required during the course of the evening.  
Sebastian listened. He nodded in approval at what he heard. “Very good, Your Excellency,” he told the door. “Carry on, Sir.”  
And behind the locked doors, carry on they did….  
###  
“Not bad for an old guy.” Edward grinned at the front of Roy’s yukata—or rather at the impertinent and impatient manhood that was tenting out the front to a very impressive degree. “I could hang my robe on that.”  
“Only if you’re in it. Come here.” Laughing, Ed allowed himself to be yanked into the older man’s embrace, running appreciative hands over his lover’s chest. Roy caught him by the hips and pulled Ed closer, his mouth finding that sensitive spot right below Ed’s ear. “Don’t care if I’m a hundred. You ever find a day when you can’t get me hard without laying a hand on me, you’d better have Knox toe-tag me and stash me in a body bag.”   
Roy’s fingers tugged carefully at the elastic that bound the younger man’s lengthy ponytail up and out of his way. He carded the lengthy mass carefully with his fingers, admiring the way it spilled over the crimson yukata, catching the low flickering light of a dozen candles in low iron lanterns. His cock twitched in appreciation. This was something dangerously erotic about his lover that he could never quite fathom, especially since Ed could effortlessly flip a mental switch and become utterly disinterested in sex or romance when focusing on a problem or working on a project. There was nothing remotely feminine about Edward Elric, for all his sharp, elegant features and remarkable topaz eyes. No, Ed had always been and would always be a tough little bastard, and while any woman would envy a waist-length mane like Ed’s, it did not feminize him in the slightest. Rather, it gave him a wildness that Roy found intensely erotic, like some splendid animal that could never quite be captured or tamed. The fact that Ed was so aggressive in bed only added to the illusion, as did the feral, wolf-like eyes he had inherited from his Xerxian father.  
A splendid animal…my splendid animal….Roy bit down on the smooth neck and was gratified by the low, throaty assent, even more by the hardness that chaffed against his own. “Come on. Let’s get wet.”

Five minutes after midnight Roy shrugged off the upper half of his deep blue robe as they stood on the edge of the sunken wooden tub. The water was roughly neck deep and although It had steps and a hand rail but when seated on the floor it was easier to simply swing ones feed around, step down onto the bench seat and ease into the steamy water. Ed admired the design, especially the features that were unique to this bath compared to the ones he’d soaked in while visiting Nihon. There were clever, adjustable foot and leg rests of cedar and movable rods of bamboo that could be positioned across the bath so that Ed could support his leg and even float on his back without the weight of his leg dragging him down. “I don’t know whether my son is a genius or a pervert,” he exclaimed, “ but this is brilliant.” He tested the stability of the bamboo rods and found them stable and safe. “What exactly does he think we’re gonna do in this thing?”  
“Nothing his uncle hasn’t done somewhere else—and with more people.”  
“Yeah, I don’t know where this damn deviant streak comes from .”  
“Says the man,” Roy teased, “who keeps—what did that palace maid in Aerugo call them—‘feeelthy peeectures!’—in his travel kit and gets rock hard whenever someone at dinner says ‘pass the butter’. Am I right?”  
The memory of having a housekeeper at the royal palace discover Ed’s Owner’s Manual when he had mistakenly left it unlocked in the sheets of the guest room was embarrassing even now and Ed’s cheeks burned. “Asshole. You have to keep bringing that up, don’t you?”  
A scarred hand yanked off the sash of Ed’s robe. “I like ‘bringing things up’. Don’t you?” His own yukata half open, he began lightly rubbing his bare chest against Edward’s, so their hardened nipples lightly grazed against each other. Roy’s chest had always been so sensitive. A flicker of tongue tip or fingers could make his ivory skin flush with arousal but it was this brushing of skin against skin that made him crazy. Ed leaned into the caress and his hand snaked down between them so that the hard ridge of his sex intruded inside Roy’s robe to greet the alchemist’s shaft. “Mmmmm….entering without knocking? That’s rude, Ed.”  
White teeth closed on a pale shoulder. “You couldn’t keep me out if you tried.” He sucked in his breath sharply as Roy’s fist closed over them both and squeezed hard.  
“Already wet and we’re not even under water…mmmm…I’ve seen candles that didn’t drip as much as you do.” A slicked finger pressed into his slit and Ed’s knees, flesh and metal, began to buckle.   
“Quit bitching. You love it. Now, are we gonna fuck or not?” Ed growled. “If the kids hadn’t been with us I’d have been all over you in the car going home. You’d have had to keep up the pose, acting all cool and presidential and military while you were creaming your shorts in the back seat with my finger up your ass.” His chuckle was low and evil and made the hair stand up on the back of Roy’s neck. “That would be entertaining as hell, making you squirm and you not being able to do a damn thing about it. Maybe I’ll hide under your desk and suck you off during a cabinet meeting….mmmmm….sound like fun?”  
“You keep taking like that,” Roy warned as they slid into the water, “ and you won’t be able to sit down for a week.” Sodden robes were peeled off and flung aside and Roy positioned himself on a slightly inclined bench seat under the water. His feet told him the tub had a slope which would be safer with Ed using it. Grabbing one of the bamboo poles from the far side of the tub Roy carefully maneuvered it into a set of wooden slots built into the tub sides, silently thanking Maes for his perverse inventiveness. The pole now stretched across the sides of the tub but about waist deep, perfect for what Roy had in mind.  
Seated on the bench, Roy persuaded Ed to stretch out on his chest, both heels hooked over the bamboo pole, legs spread. “Now…that’s it…relax…close your eyes and just let go. I’ve got you. I won’t let you sink.” Ed looked dubious but the experiment worked. Roy’s body supported his upper back and shoulders and it was the first time he’d been essentially weightless in water while wearing automail. Beneath him, Roy was whispering into his ear, reminding him that he was safe from drowning, that it was all right to let the tension flow out of his muscles. Roy adjusted Ed’s position and then his hands began to softly stroke the taut, rippled abs, thumbs sweeping up now and again to tease the rosy nipples. ”Breathe.” Ed needed to be reminded because Roy was taking his breath away and sweet sparks were coursing through him like some erotic alchemy.   
The callused hands coursed their way down…down…down….toying now with the fine blond curls that moved with the water’s wake, tracing the crease where his thighs joined and then down to cradle the balls that were tight in their sac in spite of the warmth of the water. Roy rubbed them, rolled them artfully between his fingers as his tongue traced the inner shell of his lover’s ear. “Breathe deeper…yes…go into it…feels different, doesn’t it. Feels deep…feels good?”  
“Y-yeah…yeah…wow…” The urge to tense up his body and strain towards release was building but each time he shuddered and jerked Roy softly reminded him to breathe deeper. “What…what…is…this? What—is this some kind of alchemy?”  
“Mmmmm….not exactly. The Rishi sages of Ishbal may have gotten it from Xerxes….it’s called maithuna, the Way of the Deep River. The ancients believed it was the most intense orgasm at all, but you have to relax completely and not tense up. Just keep breathing…focus on nothing but the sound of my voice and how good this feels…”  
When the hands twined around his cock Ed’s eyes began to roll back in his head but he kept breathing deeply as wave after wave of pleasure seemed to ripple through his nerve endings. He was so deeply focused he never even felt Roy slip out from under him, gently opening Ed’s arms so that he could float easily. Moving around he ducked underwater, coming up between the spread thighs and one hand moved down to open him wide enough for the entry of a tongue that kept pace with the other hand that stroked his member. There was a soft, stuttering sound of pleasure as the yielded to the pleasures of being sucked at and licked, his balls being held inside a silken mouth, a tongue tip rooting into his slit to catch the salty drops that were milky on his belly and in the water. “Ah! Ahhhhhh….yessssssss”  
Ed was close and it was too risky to hope that he could maintain his buoyancy in the throes of ecstasy. Roy ducked under, slipped under Edward’s back and positioned his man just so. He had to stretch and arch and it wasn’t altogether comfortable for Roy but he managed to ease just the crown of his cock inside Edward’s body. Ed’s eyes began to roll beneath his closed lids and his lips began to tremble. “I’ve got you safe.” Roy’s voice was low and hypnotic. “I’m rooted inside you.” He flexed his muscles and the thick cockhead twitched inside. “Keep breathing…deeper and deeper…there is no way you’ll sink under…I’ve got you safe…I’m in you now….feel me…you’re anchored to me…we’re joined, body to body….me to you. I’ll never let you fall…trust me…”  
When the sensation hit him, full force, the pulsing in his groin and bursting of his cock was almost irrelevant. He could fee it in his goddamn fingertips…deep in his chest where his heart hammered wildly, deep in his brain which sparked and made his vision go white. It felt like an alchemical reaction was washing over his skin and it tingled and burned and it felt like everything from his toes to his soul was fountaining out of his cock and he shook all over, bound only by the cockhead he clenched from inside and the strong arm and chest that bore him up.  
He was hypersensitive, inside and out. “What..the…fuck…what did you…what did you do…to me?”  
Roy waited until Edward could catch his breath. “I gave you my soul.” With one shove of his foot he pushed away the pole that had supported Ed’s legs and the weight of the automail pulled the younger man up into a half-sitting position. The shift of weight caused the hard knob just inside his opening to strike deep, hitting his sweet spot. Ed was surprised when he felt a small spurt of fluid from his tip. “I didn’t think there was a drop left inside me,” he panted.  
“I’m not done with you,” Roy told him. “Move. Grab the edge and put your knee up on the bench.” Roy moved behind him, still deeply rooted. “I gave you my soul.” There was a sharp bite on the back of his neck. “Now you get my cock. I’m going to fuck you like an animal.” Strong fingers dug into his chest as the older man’s body moulded itself to Edward, pulling him upright, his hips at exactly the right angle for a merciless attack. Roy placed one foot on the bench beside Ed’s and the leverage was just…damn…perfection.   
It was too soon for Ed to come again, his cock too sensitive, but it meant he could revel in the pleasures of being filled deep and taken hard. “I’m high and hard in you, as deep as I can reach you….I’m going to fill you up. I’m going to ride that tight hole so goddamn hard…squeeze it…squeeze it hard….”  
Ed’s head fell back and he hissed with pleasure. He was sure after that all-consuming body orgasm that even Roy couldn’t take him any higher but this…this was fucking insane. Ed, who panicked and became resentful and defensive if anyone tried to dominate or control him, was surrendering…was agreeing to be owned. In some tiny corner of his mind that was still lucid he suddenly understood why Roy took such thorough enjoyment in Edward pounding into him without mercy, leaving Roy sore and shaking and howling in delight. I’m not in control…I’m not in control… He was surprised that the realization didn’t make him wary or make him change the game, to turn the tables and get his own back. Because for the first time that he was aware of it Edward Elric was not calling the shots on at least some level….and it was okay. He was not afraid because his man…his mate…this wild beast that was snarling curses in his ear and mounting him like an animal, rutting with him…this was his equal. There was a fury and danger in fucking like this…in loving like this…and Ed gloried in it. He slammed back against that rock hard chest and the hard iron inside him churned deeper, the thick, velvety head rubbing that perfect spot and now the heat was back, rushing into his cock and he fisted it savagely as Roy growled his encouragement, one hand slipping under Ed’s balls.   
“Yeah….fuck, yessss….I knew you had more for me…don’t hold it back, Ed…I wanna see you come for me…” Roy was panting hard and grinding between his cheeks so deep Ed could feel the tangle of wet black curls rubbing against him and the slow slap of tight balls under the water. It stretched and it burned and he gloried in it. One hand squeezed and pulled at his balls while the other dug into his shoulder. “Are you ready…you want it all, Edward?” The words were snarled out and any sane man who heard such a voice in his bed would have run for his life.  
Edward had left his sanity behind along with his clothes and his shame and his inhibitions. “Lemme have it, fucker.”  
Roy jackknifed, cursing. It felt like his heart burst along with his cock as every hot, thick pulse spurted inside his lover’s core and Ed bore down hard, clenching each inch, the ridged crown against his prostate triggering his own eruption. Roy caught Ed’s offering in his palm and rubbed it over his own chest, licking his fingers before his balance gave way and the two of them sank bonelessly onto the bench, gasping for breath.  
It was quite a while before they could move, either of them. If the water had been as hot as a Nihonese bath they might have been in danger. Perhaps Maes or maybe Alphonse had thought of that. The water was not warm enough to overwhelm them, thankfully, and once Roy’s member had slipped out of the much loved and much ravaged haven that had clenched it the two men slowly dragged themselves up the wooden steps and held each other up on the edge of the bath, grinning wearily.   
“Now I know why they call it a rectum,” Ed winced. “You fuckin’ wrecked it.”  
“Mission accomplished,” Roy purred back. “Feel free to get even…only not tonight. I came so hard I think my brain is bleeding.”  
“I couldn’t hoist my meat if you tied my dick to a derrick.” He punched Roy playfully on the shoulder. “I coulda drowned at one point, shithead.”  
Roy smirked back at him, smug and spent and happier than he’d felt in weeks. “The only time I would let you go down, Ed, is between my legs.” He jerked his head towards the Nihonese futon bedroll on the other side of the room—again, proof that Maes had put way too much thought into this room. “Can you drag yourself over there or do I have to carry you?”  
“Bite me.”  
“Check the marks on your back in the morning.”

Long after the candles guttered out Roy awoke in the darkness. He could still hear the calming whisper of water over bamboo and stone, along with the soft snoring of the man draped across his chest. They couldn’t stay in here forever. He’d heard about the signs appearing in the cities. He had no doubt things were about to get ugly, extremely ugly. “All I wanted to do was take care of my country. Maybe I can’t even do that anymore.” His own voice merged with the sound of water and breathing and gentle snoring. “I don’t know how to do anything else.” It was like Edward surrendering his alchemic powers for his brother’s sake. If the tide of popularity swayed the people of Amestris to rally around Samuelson, he’d have to hand over the reins to a man whose ambition was undoubtedly greater than his willingness to sacrifice.   
“If I lose…”  
It would hurt. And he was grateful for the man who snored and drooled on his chest, because only Edward---who had lost so much on the Promised Day—could teach him how to find something more to live for in the second half of his life…..

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the day before Solstice and the Season of Peace is shot to hell by one disruption after another. Izumi knocks down the front door on Solstice Eve for a ‘chat’ with Ed’s son, while the in Bradley household an act of kindness has terrible consequences for Selim. Meanwhile, the Ice Cream Blonde dares to confront Hawkeye in public over Jean Havoc, only to find that Hawkeye’s reputation for deadly aim is not just hearsay…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 17: SEASONS BEATINGS

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

           

            _Jean Havoc grimaced as he yanked up his pants. “Be thankful I didn’t have to treat you for gunshot wounds,” was all Dr. Knox had to say, laying the syringe aside. “Now wrap it up,” he jerked his thumb towards Havoc’s crotch, “and stay out of trouble.”_

 

            That had been a month ago. His ass and his dick had stopped hurting. Jean was not quite as sure about the rest of his anatomy, his heart in particular.

            Shoot it off? That would have hurt a lot less than coming home to a closet full of empty hangers and plenty of vacant space in their his n’ hers gun cabinet. Not to mention that she had not said one word to him outside of the call of duty since he got back from Resembool. Hell, even Black Hayate IV had taken to growling at him, and from the smell of it had taken a whiz on his briefcase. “I feel lower than tits on a chicken,” he confessed to his superior just before Solstice.

            Mustang didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “ _Really._ ”

            “I mean, if I could just get her to _listen_ to me.”

            “Huh. Ever listen to _her_?”

            “Funny. That’s what Ruby says.”

            The President finally looked up at him. “Use your head, Havoc,” Mustang growled, “and I don’t mean the one inside your shorts. You lied to her. You screwed around. And now you’re complaining she won’t talk to you? Huh! You got off lucky. “

            “Well…yeah….” Havoc looked desperate. “But still, she—“

            “Oh…so it’s the Colonel’s fault?”  He threw down his pen in disgust. “That’s right…I forgot. She _made_ you sleep with that actress. Repeatedly. You were helpless.” He stood up and ruffled his hair in irritation. “Wrong, Havoc. _Wrong._ You walked into this mess with both eyes wide open. You’re not a fool. You knew what you were doing. Either fix it or live with the consequences.”

            “Haven’t you ever cheated on Ed?” Havoc blurted out, instantly regretting it.

            A corner of Roy’s mouth lifted up. “I’m not blind. Neither is Ed. And if I should notice someone I ask myself if a meaningless tryst when my husband is away worth the loss of our relationship? The answer is always ‘no’.”

            “You think Ed wouldn’t forgive you if you slipped?”

            Mustang adjusted his cap. “I’d never forgive _myself_.”

###

There was nothing like having one’s sling back pumps full of dirty slush to put a lady in a foul mood. Well, foul-er mood, made even nastier by the appearance of “Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf” on the best-sellers list all over Amestris. The fat royalties check that had just been deposited in her bank account did not take the sting out of Kelley Winchell’s humiliation. She still had no idea how in the hell that loathsome first book of hers ever crawled out of the back filing cabinets at, Dickon and Howe and Sons but somehow Mustang must have had something to do with it.  And revenge, she vowed, might be served cold but by damn it would be a sumptuous feast and she hoped the President would choke on it.

            He was waiting for her at Barnes and Walden, waving her over to the coffee bar with a genial smile. She gritted her teeth behind her smile. _Bastard._ Dealing with Frank Archer made her skin crawl. He might wear finely tailored suits and have a 500 cenz polish on his shoes, he was still a parasite. She, at least, had scruples, goddamn it. Archer, she believed, would blow a chimera if he thought it would give him information—and that was the point, wasn’t it?

            _Archer knows about chimeras_. _He knows what I know about Mustang, about the eclipse and the battle in Central that day._  And, as they used to say in the old days, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’—at least for the moment.

            She allowed him to bring her a cup of coffee—black, two pink packets of Skinny N’ Sweet—and she sat a safe distance so his manly cologne didn’t overwhelm her. “You said this was urgent?”

            “I said it’s essential.” That smile made her shudder in all the wrong ways. She trusted Frank Archer about as far as she could comfortably fling a piano. “Some galleys for my upcoming book. You might find them entertaining.”

            A leather portfolio was shoved across the table. “Let me guess,” Winchell simpered. “Another one of your _dreadfully_ entertaining picture books? Something like “Thrones Of The Sun King: Historic Bathrooms of Aerugo’? Or—oh, this is a good one—‘I Love Ewe: Merry Lives Of The Eastern Sheep Herders’. My, my, that will be good for simply _minutes_ of sparkling conversation the next time they interview you on _Cover To Cover_.  “ She flipped the folio open. “Really, Frank, I don’t know how you can face yourself in the mirror without a shot of gin after publishing such dreary— _FUCKING ISHBALLA ON ICE SKATES!!!!!”_

            She flung the folio from her as if it had bitten her. Archer calmly handed it back. She stared at him in horror. “This…sweet Leto… _where_ did you get those pictures?”

            “Holiday snaps from a friend with mutual interests.”

            “I think I may be ill.”  Under the dusting of powder and rouge Kelley Winchell had paled noticeably.

            “Get off your high-horse, Kel.” Archer’s smile was razor thin and nearly as dangerous. “You’re so proud of your tawdry little sex scandals and catching the rich and powerful in the middle of their bedroom follies. The Johnny Lunchbuckets and Jane Dishpans of Amestris just love the scandals and they spend a packet on your books—mainly because they’re written in words with less than three syllables. Throwing popcorn to zoo animals. That’s you’re career. Now,” he lifted a finger to quell her outraged snarl, “do you want to keep hiding under beds all your life? Or,” he pressed the folio back into her hands,” Do you want to help us change the country? Maybe you’d rather write children’s books?”

            Kelley Winchell didn’t answer. She opened the folio again, a lace-trimmed handkerchief pressed firmly to her mouth, her eyes darting away from the photographs now and again. Abruptly she rose and dashed into the ladies room where she remained for quite a long time.

            When she returned she reeked of breath mints and was slightly sweaty. She offered a cold, clammy hand out to Frank Archer, who shook it firmly. _“Let’s get started.”_

_###_

_“Happy Solstice!”_

Mrs. Bradley looked up into that open, kindly face and was reminded yet again how much young Maes favored his father, although the younger Elric was already considerably taller and more broad-shouldered and tended to wear his blond mane in a flyaway tumble that gave him a leonine look that suited his outgoing nature. The young man carried an enormous armload of flowers and a blue and gold bakery box that smelled wonderfully of ginger and spices. A glance at the mantle clock made the old woman smile; visitors were inevitable from 1:00 to 2:00pm, when Collins was taking the daily hour of personal time that Mrs. Bradley insisted on. Nearly every afternoon someone came to sit with Collins on his lunch hour—Madame Christmas, Miss Nina, Mr. Sebastian came calling, but more often it was young Maes or Elycia Hughes, who tended blushed and colored prettily when she called for Collins, glancing up at the good-looking young butler with shining eyes. She also noted that when Maes Elric stopped by, Collins seemed especially glad to see him, and the two would disappear into the conservatory, returning in unusually good spirits.

            The visitors were always solicitous towards her health and nearly always brought some treat or gift for Selim. Miss Nina would stop at the library to drop off the picture books and primers that Selim loved to read to his mother, while Ms. Hughes’ generosity arrived as cunningly decorated cookies and tea cakes from her bakery. Master Maes made toys and puzzles in his workshop that were simple enough for her son’s fragile mind and gave Selim hours of enjoyment. The fact that her boy was older than both of the Elric children was politely ignored. Selim was treated with great kindness by Collins’ friends and Mrs. Bradley was grateful indeed.

            Selim eagerly tore open his surprise, his dark eyes growing wide when he saw the ginger house, the tin of candies and the parchment tubes filled with colored frosting with little metal tips to pipe out different designs. “See, Selim? You can decorate your ginger house any way you like and you and your mom can eat it on New Year’s. Sound like fun to you?”

            Selim was so excited he nearly forgot to say thank you. Mrs. Bradley fretted over the want of manners but Maes laughed and waved it off before the maid escorted him to the conservatory, a third parcel tucked under his arm.

           

            “Hey!

            Deep blue eyes glanced up from the daily paper. “You didn’t go to Resembool?”

            “Not without a court order. I told her I had guests coming to Central for Solstice.” A parcel was thrust into Davy’s hands. “Happy Solstice, and let’s leave my mother out of this, or you will ruin a perfectly splendid erection I’ve been saving for you.”

            “What? I thought Petrovna Illyich Lobachevsky wasn’t coming up for the holidays.” It was no secret that the grand master of Stoltovgrad University had been eyeing Maes Elric as fine son-in-law material for years, and Edward certainly had no objections. Petrovna was smart, level-headed, pleasantly cynical and her research in water alchemy set the standard in the field. Maes had known Peta much of his life and enjoyed her company when visiting in Drachma but had no plans to settle down with her or any other man or woman he was seeing.

            “I told Mom she was. It was an easy out. Peta and I exchanged Solstice cards, but that’s it. I told her I would use her as an excuse not to be forced back to the sticks. She found it amusing and said she’d used me as an excuse to her father not to be dragged down to the dacha for Winter Carnival. Turn and turn about, equivalent exchange and all that shit.”

            Maes seemed oblivious to the relieved look on Davy Collins’ face. “Well…I’m glad you’ve come.”

            “And I’ll be glad when I’ve come too…once we get someplace secluded. Now hurry up and open it before I start bleeding from my ears, you idiot!”

            “What in the…wow…did you make this yourself?” It was his very own radio, including a two-way broadcasting mode and small enough to move about the house. The design was streamlined and elegant, with a real leather bound case and tasteful brass trim. He turned the power knob and it hummed briefly before the announcer of Radio Capital struck the one o’clock chimes just before the news segment following _Midday Amestris_.  The tone was rich and clear and Davy Collins was clearly delighted.  “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s wonderful.”

            “And, “ Maes added with a wink, “the music provides cover for other sounds that are no business of anyone else.”  He turned the dial to the Amestris Broadcasting Company’s _Lunch Time Requests_ , and as Al Parsons and His West City Wanderers struck up a lively rendition of “One O’clock Jump” Maes led his best friend behind the potted plants and the pair spent the better part of the lunch hour whetting one another’s appetites, making haste to make certain that Collins was back in his livery and neat as a pin before assuming his duties for the remainder of the day.

                       

            Maes could hear the sobbing down the corridor as Collins escorted his guest to the front door. It was an unnerving sound—the sound of a grown man choking out his tears as if his whole world had come crashing down around his head. “What the _f_ —is that _Selim?”_

            Collins, on duty once more, nodded slightly. “Indeed. Master Selim has… _moments_. If you will excuse me, I’ll have the maid show you to--- _Maes, wait_!”

            “I broke it…I _broke it._ _I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_.” Even the toughest of hearts would have felt a twinge of compassion for the dark haired man crumpled miserably on the kitchen floor, weeping over his broken ginger house. Mrs. Bradley was kneeling on the floor, half hugging her son, assuring him that Maes wouldn’t be mad, and that she would take him to Il Gattina’s this very afternoon and buy him a brand new ginger house and some Kooky Kat cakes too.

 Already tender-hearted by nature, Maes felt awful.  Before Collins could stop him, the young alchemist crouched down beside Selim and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy! It’s okay…I’m not mad at all…it was just an accident and I can fix it for you in a jiffy.” Snatching up a tube of icing, Maes squeezed a blob on his finger and quickly smeared an array in the middle of the mess. “Now watch this!”

Smiling and confident, Maes clapped his hands. A warm, golden light shimmered between his fingers as his hands touched the rim of the array.

Selim _shrieked_.

When the flash and light subsided, the ginger house was whole but Selim Bradley was not.

            Collins was dragging Maes down the hall by the collar and shoving him out the front door as an ear-splitting keen tore through the air, followed by a low, strangled cry that grew louder and shriller with each gasp of breath:  “ _DARK!DARK!DARK!DARK!DARK!DARKDARKDARKDARKDARK!!!!”_

“Get out of here, Maes!” Davy Collins snapped at his lover.

            “But,” Maes was struggling to his feet, trying to press past his best friend and back into the house. “What is it? All I did was---“

            “You don’t understand…you don’t understand _anything_! GET OUT OF HERE!!!” Collins shoved Maes in the chest, and the younger man sprawled painfully on his back on the steps as the front door slammed and locked.

###

            There was a bright flash, and the front door to President Mustang’s mansion was kicked to splinters. That in itself was an impressive feat. Even more impressive was the fact that the palace guards didn’t lift a finger to defend the perimeter. They didn’t dare.

            A braded head poked through the wreckage. _“Maes? Nina? Nana’s home!”_

At the _slap-slap-slap_ of bathroom slippers on the inlaid parquet wooden floors the downstairs maids dove into the wine cellar for safety. The silverman and the stable boy were right behind them, followed by Chef Ramsay. “Bloody hell, we’re _doomed_ ,” he muttered, a sauce pan over his head in lieu of a helmet. “She’ll feckin’ _KILL_ us all!”

            Ed’s head popped over the railing. _“Shit!”_

            Roy was right behind him. “So much for the Season of Peace.”

            Ed ducked behind Roy. “She didn’t knock. Not a good sign.”

            “Have you done anything lately to make her angry?”

            Ed did a swift mental inventory. He sighed with relief. “Not since Granny’s funeral. Not that I know of.”

            Roy stepped neatly aside, leaving Ed exposed. “Then you don’t have any thing to worry about, except repairing the front door. After all,” he smirked, “she’s _your_ teacher.”

            Manning up to the situation, Ed straightened up, drew a deep breath land leaned over the banister. “I’m up here, Teacher. We didn’t know you were coming for Solstice.”

            Izumi stepped into the foyer and beamed up at him. “Edward! Happy Solstice!” She waived a cheery greeting to the President. “Roy! How are you?”

            “Always good to see you, “ Roy answered drolly. “If we’d known you were on the way we’d have left the door open. Hope you didn’t bruise anything kicking it down, did you?”

            Izumi smiled broadly, wiggling her toes. “I’m just fine, Roy!” she called back.  “Where’s Nina?”

            “She’s out with Ruby,” Ed told his sensei. “There’s a big package from Winry and Pitt they’re picking up and then they were getting a late lunch with Rebecca and Aunt Chris since they’re working over Solstice.”

            Izumi nodded. Her smile evaporated. “Good. Now… _where… is… The Boy???”_

            Ed paled. Roy’s strong hand closed over his shoulder. “You’re not the one in trouble,” his lover whispered, “ _this_ time.”

           

            They didn’t have time to wait.  A pale and badly shaken Maes stumbled though the front door ten minutes later. He was so disturbed and upset over the incident with Selim Bradley that he didn’t even notice that his foster grandmother was lying in wait for him behind the potted plans in the foyer. He put one foot on the bottom step before she caught him by the collar, already half torn by his best friend.  “ _Maes…Urey…Elric…”_ Every syllable was double dipped in implied threats of bodily injury.

            Roy glanced at Ed. “Should we save him?”

             “If we do, who’s gonna save _us_?” Ed drew back. “As his grandmother she’d never lay a hand on him. As his sensei…well, all bets are _off_.” The memories of the afternoon Izumi found out that the Elric boys had attempted human transmutation made Ed flinch. “As his teacher, she has the right to correct him. He gave her that right when he formally became her apprentice years ago.”

            Roy shook his head. Master Hawkeye was more inclined to discipline students with his lacerating tongue, hard labor and reduced rations. He’d never actually raised a hand to Roy—mainly because Roy made damn sure the crazy old man had never been given cause to do so. “We stay out of it, I take it?”

            “Uhhh….yeah. Guess so.” 

            Izumi glared over at Roy and Edward. “If you’ll _excuse_ us, my idiot pupil and I are going to have a talk.” She gave a tremendous yank and began to drag her young pupil backwards down the steps outside, bumping on his backside down every step. “A long... _BADUMP!_ …hard… _BADUMP!…_ talk _…BADUMP!_ about… _BADUMP!_ …good… _BADUMP!!_..”

            “OWWW!SHIT! NANA!!---I mean, SENSEI! “

            “—MANNERS!”

            Ed and Roy stepped cautiously around the splintered remains of their front door and watched as Izumi Curtis continued to bodily drag their son across the lawn towards the old potting shed, his boot heels leaving deep marks in the thin blanket of snow that had fallen that afternoon.

            Roy shook his head and draped his arm over his lover’s shoulder. “Like father like son…”

###

            She had reached the stage that Havoc—damn the man!—used to refer to as ‘butt-whupped’. It irritated her that she was this fatigued. It irritated her even more that Havoc wouldn’t leave her the hell alone. She’d packed up, walked out and never looked back. He was simply Major Havoc now, nothing more than her subordinate—in more ways than one, to her thinking.

            The bakery section of the recently expanded Il Gattina was packed this afternoon. Solstice cakes, mince pies, fancy cookies and box after box of hand-dipped chocolates crammed every inch of counter space.  Riza took refuge in a quiet corner of the café with a hot cup of ginger spice tea. She had waved away the waitress who offered her a slice of rich layer cake or the ‘mile high meringue’ that was the tea-time special. Elycia had stopped by Riza’s table and brought her a cinnamon scone, hot from the oven and sat down to join her favorite ‘Aunt Ree’ for a few moments. “You sure you’re feeling all right?” Elycia asked gently, not wanting to pry but concerned that Riza seemed pale and tired.

            “Just fine, thank you. I’m not really hungry, but—“

            “I’ll just wrap it up in a to-go bag for you—it’s on the house,” Elycia told her. “And I’ve fixed you up a basket to take home for your Solstice breakfast. I know you and J—ah…I know you love my coffee cake ring.”

            _You and Jean….You and Jean…_ How long before mutual friends stopped binding their names together? “That’s so kind of you. Thank you.” Her cognac eyes fell to the tabletop. “I must be coming down with a cold. I’m off duty for the next 48 hours so I’ll get some rest and turn in early.”

            Mercifully, Elycia had left her to tend to her other customers and she could focus on the afternoon edition of _The Central Times_.  There was a blurb about Donal Samuelson accusing Roy Mustang of being soft on national security and a ‘return to traditional values’ being a cornerstone of the Samuelson platform. Annoyed, she flipped the page and was further irritated by an interview with Kelley Winchell about the release of her book about Roy Mustang, _Fire and Vice_. _“It actually proved fortuitous that the release was delayed due, I am certain, to the mismanagement of my former publishers. I have signed a new contract with—“_  Riza didn’t bother to read another word. She scanned the movie listing; perhaps she’d take in a show tomorrow, since she and…

            “Yoo-hoo!”

            That _voice_. Baby soft. A voice like pink candy floss coming from pinkly rouged lips. A voice Riza Hawkeye never wanted to hear again if she could help it. She glanced over the edge of her paper and found herself staring into a wide pair of baby-blue eyes fringed with thickly mascara’ed lashes. “Don’t be mad,” the vision cooed. “Jean and I –we both got duped by that Carlotta. We didn’t know she had the… _you know_. “

            Hawkeye stared at the Ice Cream Blonde. “Carlotta?”

            “Yeah…she came over to see me when Jean was checking in and had this bottle of the _best_ champagne….and…you know how it gets sometimes, right?”

            Riza Hawkeye gave the starlet a frosty glance. “No. I don’t.”

            The Ice Cream Blonde leaned in and whispered, “She took _advantage_ of us. Me and Jean, y’know.”

            “She _didn’t_.”

            “I _swear_ on my life. Cross my heart and hope to _die_.”

            “We’re not that lucky.”  Neatly folding the paper and laying it to one side, Riza motioned for the waitress. “Check please?”

            “You’re not _mad_ , are you?” Gladys Turlough seemed genuinely concerned. “I mean, Jean’s all down in the dumps and cryin’ in his beer because you won’t come home.”

            “That is not my concern.”

            “Oh, but he’s a grand fellow, that country boy. Just grand.”

            “Fine. You’re welcome to him.”

            The platinum blonde’s pretty forehead began to pucker in consternation. “You’re breaking his heart—“

            “He’s not my concern. You and… _Carlotta_ …are welcome to him. Have fun.” Turning smartly, Hawkeye shook off  her unwanted companion and marched up to the café register/ “One cup of tea.” She handed over a twenty cenz coin, and when the girl behind the counter rang her up Riza waved away the change. She just wanted to get the hell out of Il Gattina and as far away from this perfumed hussy as she could.

            Gladys Turlough wasn’t through. “Listen to me! You are not walking away from this. Jean is my friend and you’ve hurt him. I want you to talk to him.” Manicured fingers curled around Riza’s wrist and tugged.

            “Take your hand off me,” Hawkeye warned.

            “No! That uniform don’t scare _me_ , Miss High And Mighty Hawkeye! What are you going to do— _shoot me?”_

            “You’re not worth the bullets.”

            Nearly as quickly as Riza Hawkeye would have drawn and fired in the heat of battle, a Mile High Meringue Pie™, golden brown and light as a cloud on top,  sinfully creamy in the middle and made with the finest dark rum and imported chocolate, vanished from the glass top counter and smashed into Gladys Turlough’s face with a soul-satisfying _SPLATTT!_

            A 100 cenz note was slapped down beside the register. “Sorry about the mess.”

            As she marched out into the cold a flailing fury with meringue in her hair screamed after her. _“YOU BITCH!!!”_

            Riza Hawkeye paused at the door. “That’s _Colonel Bitch_ to you, Miss Turlough. _Happy Solstice.”_

           

….TO BE CONTINUED….

 


	18. "AT THE CLOSING OF THE YEAR"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the School of Hard Knocks. Izumi and Madame Christmas prove that the second generation of Elrics is just as stubborn and impulsive as Ed and Al were. Meanwhile, Roy gives a rare gift of alchemy to Edward along with a pledge: “No half lives”

"If I cannot bring you comfort, then at least I bring you hope  
For nothing is more precious than the time we have—and so  
We all must learn from our misfortunes  
Count the blessings that are real  
Let the bells ring out for Solstice at the closing of the year  
Let the bells ring out for Solstice…at the closing of the year…"*

 

“Good evening, Central! I don’t know if you looked out the window this morning you got up, but it was a beautiful sight, wasn’t it, Eleanor? And we’ve got a light dusting still coming down. It’s going to be a wonderful Solstice for the children of Central, isn’t it?”  
“It certainly is, Frank! And everyone here at Radio Capital wishes you all a safe and happy Solstice, from our family to yours. And now, the headlines at the top of the hour:  
“Former First Lady Anna Bradley has been hospitalized with what has been reported to be chest pains and exhaustion. Surgeon General Owen Knox has stated that Mrs. Bradley is in good condition and resting comfortably, adding that if her condition continues to improve she will be released after a few days of observation…”  
###  
Roy jerked his head in the direction of the commotion in the old potting shed in the back garden. Sounded like wood splintering, punctuated with occasional shouts from Izumi and yelps of pain from her grandson. Ed was getting that wild-hair-impulse look n his eyes and was winding a warm scarf around his neck and going for his jacket. Intervention—especially if Izumi was pounding some common sense into a stubborn Elric male of any generation---was risky business. “He won’t thank you.”  
Ed hesitated. Hell, if he’d been getting the crap knocked out of him by Teacher, would he have thanked Hohenheim for barging in and trying to stop her? If he was honest with himself, he’d have admitted it would have been mortifying and he’d have shouted for the old bastard to get the hell out and taken his licks like a man—that is, if he didn’t take a couple of swings at Hohenheim himself.  
Parenthood, however, had nothing to do with logic.  
Ed shrugged on his jacket. “He’s my kid, Roy.”  
“He’s my son, too.”  
Something in the tone of those words went straight to Ed’s heart. He grinned a little. “Yeah. So you get to clean up what’s left of me after both of them kick my ass, okay?”  
###  
“Several hundred peaceful protestors gathered on the steps of Parliament this morning in support of the ‘Government Of The People’ movement that is gaining in popularity in the past month. Presidential hopeful Donal Samuelson stated this morning that this is an optimistic sign that the people of Amestris are sending a strong message to the Mustang administration that the country is ready to break ties with its past as a military state and are looking to the civilian sector for new leadership.  
“And in entertainment news, well-known celebrity biographer and children’s author Kelley Winchell has signed a lucrative book deal with Odyssey Press, ending her longtime affiliation with Dickon and Howe and Sons. Kelley denies that this was in response to the release of her children’s book , “Buckety Buckety the Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles the Wolf” from a manuscript she had submitted in her teens. Dickon and Howe retain all rights to Miss Kelley’s previous best-sellers, as well as a trio of previously unreleased volumes in the “Buckety Buckety” series. The release of her most recent work of nonfiction, ‘Fire and Vice’, a biography of President Roy Mustang, has been postponed indefinitely due to the settlement with Dickon and Howe and Sons.  
“In sports, the Central Green Sox will begin spring training early this---“  
Nina Elric’s elegantly coiffed head turned towards the radio behind the bar in Chris Mustang’s restaurant, her attention riveted by the news broadcast. In a rare display of ebullient good spirits, Nina jumped off her bar stool with a whoop of joy, hugged Rebecca and Ruby, kissed Madame Christmas on the cheek and just stopped herself short of ordering a round of drinks for the house—which, in Mustang’s establishment, would have blown her teacher’s bonus for the next two Solstices. “We did it!” she shouted triumphantly. “We did it!! We---“  
She stopped dead in her tracks. Rebecca and Ruby were staring at her. So was Madame Christmas, whose cat-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.  
“Ooops.” Nina sat down abruptly, smoothing her floor-length skirts and straightening her small rimless spectacles. “Never mind. Carry on.”  
“Carry on?” Chris Mustang growled. “What have you been up to, kid?”  
Ruby took a certain mildly spiteful pleasure at the young woman’s flustered reaction. She liked Nina, actually. Her sense of fashion was peculiar as hell but she was smart, she was kind and she could take a breath without swearing, unlike her father. But she was a true Elric in that she attracted trouble the way her brother’s tinkering experiments attracted fire trucks and insurance claims adjusters. She decided to risk bluffing Nina. It always worked so well with her father and brother. “You might as well tell her, Nina,” Ruby advised with a look of convincing resignation. “Maes already spilled the beans to me.”  
Invisible sparks seemed to crackle in Nina Elric’s aura. “I’ll kill him,” she growled  
The old woman’s rings cut into Nina’s hand in a tight grip the younger woman couldn’t squirm out of if she tried. “In my office. Now.”  
“But Aunt Chris—“  
“You think you’re not too big to spank? Try me.”

If Nina had had any idea what her father and stepfather had done to one another on the very chaise she was sitting on in Room 5, she’d have leaped off the crimson velvet upholstery and changed her skirts immediately. Now that she’d confided the truth to Aunt Chris she was too scared to move an eyelash. 

Aunt Chris’ eyes weren’t melting with warmth—but that was par for the course. When she was very, very little only the reassurances from Poppy and Daddy could convince her that the gimlet-eyed ex-madam was not going to eat her. Eventually, she had come to love the old woman dearly for what she was, but unlike her mother or Aunt Gracia or her beloved Nana ‘Zumi, Aunt Chris wasn’t the hug-and-kiss-it-better type. As a young adult she had come to appreciate Chris Mustang’s savvy and dead-on accurate judgment calls on people and situations—a gift she had transferred to her adopted son. The old woman smoked like a chimney, swore like a Drachman sailor, knew where all the bodies were buried and had absolutely no tolerance for bullshit or bullshitters. “You think I’m a scary old broad?” she would cackle. “Kid, if you knew the half of it you’d pee yourself and run for the hills. But—“ she would add, flicking her cigarette for emphasis, “—just remember, you’re family. I’ve got your back.”  
But just at this moment, Chris Mustang had her back up and was, as Uncle Jean would put it, ‘about to open up a can of red-hot Whoopass” on Roy’s beloved step-child. The green eyes were hot with anger and the only thing that kept a manicured hand from slapping the crap out of the young Elric’s lovely face was a lifetime of self-control and her knowledge that Roy-Boy would never forgive her if she did.  
“I can see Maes pulling a stunt like this,” she rasped, pulling hard on her filter tip and blowing a stream of blue smoke above her head as she bawled the girl out. “I expect him to act like an idiot---he’s a male. But I always figured you to be the one with some common sense…at least I did up until now.” She stabbed out her smoke in a gilded ash tray and jammed another between her rouged lips, snapping her lighter open and puffing angrily before continuing. Nina stifled the urge to cough; the smoke was making her eyes water. “You got any idea how much damage you could do to Roy’s career? All he’s worked for, sacrificed for?” The newly lit cigarette was waiving inches from Nina’s nose now. “”So some dumb broad with the morals of a rattlesnake writes a book that’s ‘sposed to blow the lid off the shit that went down on The Promised Day. You think the government doesn’t have some idea why every goddamn person in this country was killed that day---or why we’re all alive? The public was told some rogue alchemists and the military tried to overthrow the government and managed to kill Bradley and that brat Selim. Breda and his boys made Roy look like the savior of the nation over the radio and Anna Bradley hammered the last nail in to make the deal secure. Hell, not even that bastard Edison making Gracia go on the radio and accuse Roy of being an ambitious, underhanded, backstabbing cocksucker, plotting to take Bradley down—which he has been, if ya wanna get absolutely technical about it—could turn the people against him.  
“Now, I don’t like this whole ‘Government OF The People’ bullcrap worth a damn, but Roy made a promise to himself and to Ed and to the people that he would give ‘em a democracy and that’s the price you pay, kid. He’s gonna be opposed, and those muckrakers are gonna find the skeletons in the closet---you think Roy doesn’t know what might happen? That every manipulation and underhanded deed and scheme that Roy played against Bradley is gonna be dragged to the surface? He knows, kid! And I’ll tell you this: he hated that bastard enough that he’d have sucked every cock in Bradley’s cabinet if he had thought it would bring him one step closer to tearing that playhouse down. Would have—and I’d have done it too. We owe our goddamn lives to my boy—my boy and your family.  
“And THEN, you snot-nosed little know-it-all, you and your idiot brother decide to sabotage the printer’s office in hopes that you could stop Fire And Vice from coming out—you get all cute and dress up in your little costumes and snoop around—you suck at that, by the way. You should have asked me or one of my girls to do it—and ruin the printing rolls and oh—since you couldn’t leave well enough alone—you dig out all those ‘Buckety Buckety’ manuscripts, doctor them up and leave ‘em where the publishers can find them---ohhh….you thought you were so goddamn cute and clever, didn’t you? Well,” the old woman was wheezing now with the exertion of her sustained rant, “all you did was made that slut Winchell a piss-pot full of money---and if anybody finds out what you did it will look like Roy put you up to it. They could impeach him for that kind of shit—or didn’t that thought ever cross your mind, missy?”  
Something very cold clutched Nina’s insides and she paled visibly. “I-im—impeach?”  
“Are you deaf as well as stupid and selfish? Damn right, kid. I said impeach. You want me to get you a dictionary or do I have to explain impeachment to you in words of two syllables or less so you can understand what the hell you did to try and wreck everything Roy has done to save this goddamn country??”  
Nina Elric did not weep often. She was not very good at it and she made odd, rusty choking noises into the handkerchief Aunt Chris thrust at her, shoulders shaking violently. At long last the old lady patted her on the shoulder. “All right, all right…knock it off, kid,” she said, not unkindly. “If you want to learn the intelligence game, you and your idiot brother need to talk to somebody who knows where to go and who to blow.” One corner of Chris’ mouth lifted; it was very nearly a smile. “You were just trying to help. I get it. Promise me you won’t do anything else stupid without talkin’ to me first—and that goes for Maes too.”  
Nina blew her nose and nodded miserably. “All right. Go wash your face, girl. Pull yourself together and I’ll get Ruby to run you home.”  
###

Whiteness was swirling around the windows and through the cracks in the walls he could feel an unpleasant draft.  
The shattered crockery was disposed of, shards swept away along with the broken bits of the ginger house and spilled candies. The teapot had been rinsed, dried and put away. They would not be needing it for awhile. However, the table was set with fresh linens in the event of callers, and there were enough tea cakes and biscuits for hospitality should the President come calling, as Collins expected.  
His hand must not tremble, he reminded himself as he straightened the potted plants by the front door that Maes had tumbled over. It was a mercy that the steps had not been iced over yet, or he would have been hurt much worse when Collins shoved him backwards out the front door and down the steps, slamming the door behind him.  
A finger laid discreetly aside his cheek caught a single salty drop. I’ve ruined everything.  
They had taken Selim away in the ambulance, Collins following behind, driving Mrs. Bradley who was pale and dizzy and disoriented. Selim had been injected with a sedative and was asleep now, he had been told, after having been restrained for fear he would harm himself. Mrs. Bradley had been admitted for observation for a few days. He had made discreet inquiries and was told that Maes Elric had not been admitted for treatment—at least not today. “Depends on what he gets up to over the Solstice,” and orderly told him good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t turn up with a broken finger or needing something stitched up or a chemical burn of some sort. He’s the closest thing our emergency triage has to a regular visitor.”  
So…no broken bones. Thank goodness. But every time he replayed the moment in his mind he felt sick. “I….I threw him out. I hit him. What in the world was I thinking?”  
And then the President would come. President Roy Mustang, the man he had served so long and, he hoped, so well. If it had not been for the patronage of President Mustang and his aunt Collins with still be Dogshit Davy, living off the mean streets, with his mother long gone and his father long dead. He owed his life to the Mustangs, and all the President had ever asked him to do was look after Anna Bradley and her strange, simple-minded son Selim. He had failed, failed utterly and there was nothing for it but to call His Excellency and report—if Maes hadn’t told on him already, coming home bruised from head to foot and unable to forgive being manhandled and chucked out—especially after spending a blissful hour buried inside the young butler. I can still smell Maes on my skin, Collins groaned inwardly. I can taste him. His…he’s still…in…me. He’ll be done with me for nearly breaking his neck. There was an awful wrench in his guts over that loss and his heart began to hammer from the stress of it all.  
In one horrible afternoon he had failed his mission, he had been unable to care for his employer, Selim had seemingly lost his mind and on top of that, Collins had most certainly lost his best friend and lover. After this catastrophe, even Miss Nina and kind Miss Elycia would be done with him. Only one thought scared him worse than being questioned by the President:  
“Mr. Sebastian will have my head for this!”  
###

Judging from the racket, it sounded like Maes was ducking pretty well. Ed was still reasonably sure that Izumi had landed a few good wallops on her grandson, hopefully without using any of the pitchforks or rakes hanging on the walls nearby.  
“You INGRATE!” CRASH!! “You ungrateful little monster!” CRAAAACKKK! “Don’t you EVER, EVER let me hear you talk like that about your mother again!” Something splintered and one of Izumi’s slip-on sandals went flying. Judging from the loud OOOFFF that followed, the other shoe had hit home somewhere in his son’s midsection.  
“Screw this, he’s a grownup now. Maybe he mouthed off about Winry, but that’s for me to handle, not Teacher. This isn’t alchemy student crap. She has no right---“  
“---she may not be married to your father anymore but—“  
“Father?? I wish to hell he WAS my father!”  
###  
“This is not your fault, Collins.”  
What was it about young men and women? Always so eager to blame themselves for things they have no control over. “I wasn’t that idiotic when I was their age,” Roy assured himself, pouring a splash of brandy in his snifter, pausing to savor its heady aroma. “Flogging myself over things I couldn’t change…” He shook his head, and ignored that still, small voice of conscience that poked at him, eager to remind him of the endless sleepless nights spent wallowing in guilt over the war, over Hughes, over…over everything.  
Collins had been scared half to death but he had called Roy anyway. Good. That kid has proved his worth time and time again. He had no idea that Dr. Knox had already told me everything. “You attempted to stop Maes. He had no way of knowing that Selim has been shielded from any references to alchemy the whole of his life. Selim was damaged as a result of a failed alchemic transmutation attempt during the coup attempt. Mrs. Bradley adopted him after learning her own son and husband had been killed. There is no guessing what Selim remembers, if anything. Point is, you are not to blame and neither is Maes. And, “ he added wryly, “judging from the way you handled events at the hospital, I am certain Sebastian will find no fault in your service….or,” he was chuckling now, “let’s just say I’ll make certain Sebastian finds no fault.”  
“Th-thank you, Your Excellency!”  
“Oh—and by the way, I wouldn’t be to concerned about my son. He’s having a little talk with his alchemy teacher. She’s not happy with him. Any bruises he might have gotten from you in the performance of your duties will be completely forgotten by the time she gets done with him…”  
###  
Maes glanced over his shoulder. Edward Elric, the man who had raised him, loved him, guided him and been his hero the whole of his young life, made a wordless gasp of astonishment as he stood there, framed by the splintered remains of the potting shed door.  
Nobody moved.  
Eventually, Edward stepped through the hole Izumi had kicked through and stepped to the young man’s side. Maes was on his knees now, sporting a number of impressive contusions and bleeding slightly from a scrape over one eyebrow. His handsome features were bunched up into a knot of misery and his cheeks were wet with tears.  
Edward knelt beside him. “What did you say?”  
“I…I said…I wish to hell you really were my father!”  
“Mmmm.” One gloved hand gently ruffled the tangled mane of gold that was too blonde to have come from his mother’s side. He glanced around at the rubbish and dirt around him. “What did you do, knock his brains out? I’m pretty sure he had some before you dragged him in here.” He feigned a comical search, then shrugged helplessly. “Oh well, I bet your sister can spare some. She won’t even miss them. C’mon,” he pulled his son to his feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up and stitched up and I’m sure you’ll start talking sense once we get some coffee into you---“  
Maes drew away from his father, shaking his head. “It’s true, isn’t it? All these years…all these years…everybody’s been lying to me….and I’ve been walking around all this time like an idiot, thinking that you…you were…”  
Izumi frowned. “Maes, what in the world---“  
Ed chimed in after her. “Where in the hell did---“  
“I heard them! I saw them!” Mae’s face was flushed and his topaz eyes were wild with barely suppressed rage. “She…she said…goddamn it!!!”  
“Maes! Don’t swear!”  
Ed glared at his sensei. “Lay off the kid.” His hands rested on his son’s shoulders, and the sorrow in his boy’s face was terrible to see. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, Maes.” His voice was quiet and encouraging. “Nothing you say is going to be worse than the way this is hurting you. Talk to me.”  
“She said….she loved him. Uncle Al….she said…she said to him, and he was crying and saying ‘no, no’….” Maes closed his eyes. “she said…she’d loved Uncle Al all along…and that he must never know the truth…that it would break his heart if he ever found out…but she’d kept it bottled up inside—“  
“And you thought that she was talking about you??” Ed stared in amazement at Izumi. “Kids! Geeze! They think the whole world revolves around them and then beat themselves up over it!”  
“You did at his age,” Izumi answered calmly. “You were worse.”  
Ed ignored her. “Son…listen. Listen. She wasn’t talking about you. She was talking about Pitt---and she was talking out her ass.” He pressed down on Maes’ shoulders until he sat down on the toolbox, badly dented from his battle with his grandmother. “Your mom…that whole business with her…y’know…feeling…I don’t know…stuff…for your uncle. She went through a phase after we split, before Uncle Pitt went up to see her in Rush Valley. Al was—shit, you have no idea how famous he was back then. All over the papers and stuff. I even think there was Alphonse the Aeronaut toilet paper there for awhile, heh heh…” It was a lame joke. Thankfully Maes was too miserable to notice. “Anyway, your mom got all kinda caught up in the image, like she’d never seen Al before. And that was hard for Al. He really had feelings for your mom and she never noticed until it was too late.”  
“He’s right,” Izumi told her grandson, her anger gone in a flash. “Alphonse knew that it wouldn’t work, that the same things that drove Winry and Edward apart would eventually come between them, too, if they tried to have a life together. Then Pitt came back into her life for the first time since they were in school. He loved your mother then. He loves her now. She loves him too, but grief has made her forget that for awhile. She’ll be all right, Maes. You will be too.”  
“But…Uncle Al could still be---?”  
Ed suddenly colored right up to his hairline. “Not a chance.”  
‘How do you know?” Maes demanded.  
“Because…welll…ah…” Edward hadn’t looked this embarrassed since the time he had to explain to a five year old Maes why he was ‘kissing Uncle Roy’s pee-pee’ when the child walked in on them one night after a bad dream. “I mean…Uncle Al was at the wedding---but he left on the train to East City right after the wedding supper and was gone for two years in Xing…and I…well…I know for a…for a fact that your…your mom was…she…she was…ah…oh, damn it! SHE WAS AS IGNORANT AS I WAS!!! Are you satisfied, goddamn it?? It was a total disaster but we…figured it out…enough…to make you.” Ed shuddered as if the memory was one he dreaded. “You’re MINE, kid. Maybe you got the rough end of the deal getting stuck with me, but the one damn good thing I did right in my life was make you and your sister. And that’s the same reason, “he added gently, “not to be mad at your mom. She’s human, son. And on the scale of life fuck-ups, her having a crush on my brother is chicken-feed compared to me transmuting my dead mother and turning my brother into a blood splat inside a suit of animated armor. She’ll get over it—so you get over it, okay?”  
Damn, he looked so young. It wrenched Ed’s heart to see his son so upset. Awkwardly, impulsively, he pulled Maes into a bear hug. “And you know what, knucklehead?” he whispered urgently, “if—and I mean by some weird twist of fate—if you actually were fathered by another man…you know what? He’d have to fight me for you. Nobody’s gonna take you or Nina away from me. You got that?”  
Izumi stepped quickly to Ed’s side, winding her arms around her boys, blinking back tears of her own, so proud of how Edward had fought his own innate aloofness to become a father any son would be proud of.  
“Trisha,” she offered a silent thanksgiving in her heart as she laid her cheek against Edward’s hair, “you did well….you did well indeed.”  
###  
“Hey.”  
“Hey.”  
“How’s the kid?”  
Ed poured himself a brandy and leaned against the tall man sitting on the hearth, savoring the warmth. “Raiding the pantry with his sister. Don’t blame me if Solstice dinner ends up being bread and cheese and sausage.”  
“I’ve had worse.”  
“Me too.”  
A pause. “Aunt Chris went pretty hard on Nina.”  
“Huh! Least she didn’t break a hoe handle over her head. What kind of trouble did she get into this time?”  
Roy smiled a little. “Same sort of crazy thing you’d have done. She and Maes have been chewed out enough for one day.”  
A sharp elbow dug in Roy’s side. “You’re not going to tell me.”  
“Would if I were worried about it.” He took a sip. “If it gets to be a problem we’ll…we’ll deal with it.”  
The clock struck midnight. “Happy Solstice.”  
“You too.” Roy turned and reached towards the fireplace. “Now…let me see if this works…”  
“Huh?  
“Something I’ve been experimenting with.” Scarred palms slapped together and a ring of pearly smoke began to form above the smoldering coals.  
Ed was impressed. “Neat trick. We should hire you out to do children’s parties.”  
“Shut up.” Carefully manipulating the air currents, Roy shaped the smoke ring into a band. “Give me your hand.”  
The band of smoke moved down Ed’s ring finger, shimmering briefly in the firelight. “Short and sweet,” Roy told him quietly. “Whatever’s mine is yours, including my life. Whatever happens, I’ve got your back. No half lives. No half promises. All or nothing---as long as you want me.”  
“That goes for me too,” Ed answered as their hands clasped. “Is that it?”  
“That’s all it needs to be. We’ll make it legal, of course. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal, Edward. Now,” he rose and grinned down at his new husband. “Let’s go take a bath, shall we?”

….TO BE CONTINUED…..  
* lyrics adapted from “At The Closing Of The Year” by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * lyrics adapted from “At The Closing Of The Year” by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn


	19. BLOOD AND FIRE AND ALCHEMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small annoyances of planning his wedding to Edward suddenly pale into insignificance when Alphonse delivers a manuscript to Roy—not the long-threatened tell-all biography but something far , far worse: a book that could cause a revolution in the nation of Amestris…

“ _Doves_ , you said?” Mustang glanced up at Colonel Hawkeye as if he hadn’t quite heard her….or if he had, he didn’t believe her.

            “Yes, sir. _Doves_.”  She glanced at her notebook. “Five hundred and fifty-five for good luck, to be precise. They arrived early this morning in what appear to be modified chicken coops. Major Havoc has them stored in stable so they won’t become chilled.”

             “Doves, huh?” Dark eyes did not blink.  “And….what… _precisely_ …are they doing in the stable?”

            “Making a mess, sir.”

            “I see.”  He slid off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m guessing that Princess Elena of Aerugo would be deeply offended if the doves were not released at my wedding?”

            “That _is_ the custom, sir.”

            Ed glanced up from his coffee. “I know exactly what Havoc will say about this.” He hoisted an imaginary rifle to his shoulder. “Click-click… _BOOM_!”

            Roy scowled. So it was going to be _that_ kind of morning, was it?  “Not funny, Ed. These are a wedding gift from the Princess.  
            “And they cook up really nice with red wine in pastry---which her brother served us last time we visited ol’ Claudio. Guess he’s just sending us his leftovers, huh?”

            “Well, get them out of my stable. Get someone to rig up a dovecote or whatever. Oh, and get Bacalla on the phone and tell him that we’ve decided on the rack of lamb with fresh mint sauce for the wedding supper. Make sure he orders the meat straight from Resembool.  No cutting corners with cheap mutton from Creta.”

Ed tossed Roy the morning paper. “That would help out the farmers back home. The bad weather at harvest really hurt them.  Getting their lamb on the menu at a presidential wedding could help ‘em out. Maybe Peehole could export it outside the East for them.”

 A dismissive gesture from the Commander in Chief. “Take care of it, Hawkeye. And make sure the wedding plans remain on schedule. I have enough headaches as it is.”

            After decades of taking his right hand woman for granted, Roy Mustang didn’t even notice the moment of silence that followed as he stirred his coffee, nor did he notice the distinctly frosty look she gave him before answering. “” _Yes, sir.”_

            Roy bit into a slice of dry toast, ignoring Ed’s quips and concentrating on his breakfast…what little there was of it. He frowned. He really wanted a plate of ham and eggs but his image team had advised Roy to drop a couple of pounds to look better for the newsreel cameras that followed him on every stop of the campaign trail. His stomach growled in protest—a stomach that was still washboard taut. Roy still ran the army obstacle course a couple of times a week—could outrun many twenty-somethings. Why all this sudden alarm about his good looks? Was a goddamn spoonful of jam on his toast going to make that big a difference during the Election? “Next on the agenda?” he growled.

            “We have the latest election poll results, sir.” Hawkeye didn’t look amused. “You’re still ahead of Samuelson, but he’s gaining in popularity with the 16-to-35 year olds.” Before the President could answer, she added tersely, “Males, that is. The female voters from all ages—“

            “—think I’m devastating—“

            “—I didn’t say that, sir.”

            “You didn’t have to.”  A smirk crept over the rim of his coffee cup. “I think it has more to do with my position on equal pay, women’s rights, education and job opportunities…but being better looking than my opponent doesn’t hurt, does it? Next item?” He flipped open the paper to the sports section. He was halfway through an article on the spring steeplechase racing season before it occurred to him that the Colonel had not spoken. “ _Next item,_ Hawkeye! Let’s go!”

            He glanced up. Her face was impassive as ever. “Well??”

            She dropped her note pad right in the middle of his dry toast and grapefruit. “Read it yourself, _Sir_.” Before his jaw could drop in astonishment, she saluted, spun on her boot heels and marched briskly out of the Presidential office, closing it behind her with a bang. There was a loud ‘ _ooof!’_ in the hall, followed by a curt “sorry, Alphonse’ as the footsteps died away.

            The door to Roy’s office opened just a crack. A hand poked cautiously in, waving a handkerchief. “Very amusing, Alphonse,” Mustang snapped. “Come on in.”

            “As if this morning wasn’t bad enough,” Alphonse sighed, closing the door behind him.

            “Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?” The  sour look on his brother’s face made Edward instantly suspicious. “Those movie people still hanging around?” Neither Elric brother was overjoyed that the popular stage musical “The Fullmetal Alchemist” was being made into a motion picture right here in Central in the middle of the Election campaign.  Donal Samuelson had been, for decades, a fixture in the radio, news and film circles in the capital. He had suggested—oh, he was only joking, he insisted—that the film’s release had been timed as a public relations stunt by the Mustang team.  Even more embarrassing was the incident on Solstice Eve when Colonel Riza Hawkeye had publicly smashed a dessert into the face of one of the film’s stars, the legendary Gladys Turlough, after an argument in the café at Il Gattina. There were no charges pressed, but the ‘Battle of the Hawkeyes” only made the Mustang team look ridiculous. Al had stepped in to try and assist with the damage control and it was beginning to strain even Al’s good nature.

            “Let me guess,” Roy sighed. “Sherman Lehrer has taken over the role of Colonel Roy Mustang in the musical and intends to play the role in a dress, right?”

            Ed scowled. “One of these days I’m gonna get the truth out of him about sabotaging your gala for a payoff from that cocksucker Samuelson— _and_ trying to make it look like Gladys Turlough was behind it.” He cracked his knuckles for emphasis. “I’d _love_ to beat the truth out of that son of a bitch.”

            “Easy, Ed,” his brother cautioned. “We’ve got bigger problems to worry about. That’s what I came to tell you.”

            “Bigger than Samuelson being a dirty, underhanded pissrag who needs an automail ass-kicking?”

            Alphonse laid a paper-wrapped parcel on Roy’s desk.  The return address was “Odyssey Press, 1003 Fleet Street, Central” and had been sent second class library rate. “Roy…I’m sorry…I’m so damn sorry. I wish….” His voice trailed off and he bowed his head.

            Roy made no move to open the package. He stared at it coolly, his fine features giving no clue as to his thoughts of the moment.

            Edward, on the other hand, shot off the couch like a rocket. “That….that’s not---“

            “I’m sorry,” Alphonse repeated. “If there was anything… _anything_ …I could have done to stop it—“

            Roy looked up from his reverie. “ _Freedom of speech. Freedom of expression. Freedom of the press._ That’s what I’ve been fighting for all these years, Al. Those are the privileges of a democratic society.” One corner of his mouth turned up in an ironic smile. “For better or for worse.” One gloved finger brushed a corner of the package. “For _worse_ , this time, I’m guessing. For me, anyway.” The smile deepened. “Perhaps if our children hadn’t meddled in the publishing career of Kelley Winchell this might not have happened…well…waiting is not going to make this go away, is it?”

            Rising to his feet, Roy gathered up the parcel and headed for the door.

            “Hey…what…where are you going?” Ed looked genuinely alarmed.

            Roy paused but did not turn around. “To hell, I suspect.”

###

            “He’s not coming this morning, Ma’am.”

            “He?”

            “President Mustang, Ma’am.” A pillow slid under Mrs. Bradley’s feet and Collins tucked the afghan warmly around her shoulders. “He sends his regrets. He said that he will contact you later during the week about stopping by for tea.”

            Mrs. Bradley smiled gently up into the young man’s face. _Such a good boy_ , she thought to herself. _So kind to me, and he manages Selim so well._ “Please, David, there’s no need to fuss over me. I’m doing fine.”

            “And it’s my intention to see that you stay that way—you and Master Selim as well.”  

            The thin winter sunshine filled the room and as he turned his face to adjust the draperies Anna Bradley noted yet again that David Collins was a fine looking young man. His light brown hair tumbled in waves to his shoulders—young men nowadays were often cropping it off short—and his eyes were a lovely grey-blue, set into a fine-featured face, carefully schooled in the proper attitude and expression of the majordomo of her household. It must be hard, she suspected, to be so young and have to be so serious and responsible all the time. She practically had to force him to take an afternoon off and it worried her that young Maes Elric had not stopped by since the dreadful day that Selim had had what was politely referred to as ‘an episode’.

            That was why Mustang would come, if not today, eventually, she fretted.  Selim had been strapped down in a hospital bed under sedation for the better part of a week and had been strangely subdued ever since.  Quite a few doctors, nurses and researchers had come to examine and observe him, but the only conclusion they had reached was that he had experienced an unknown trauma and that al that could be done was stabilize him, sedate him if necessary and send him home. If he did not improve, they warned, he would have to be institutionalized.

            Mustang had delayed this meeting every week for the past month. He wasn’t fooling her. He was, she believed, a kind man at heart. It would not be easy for him to say to her that her son must be put away…or worse, put to rest for good.  It was a relief that he had not come to tea and witnessed one of his strange screaming fits, curling into a ball and shrieking so loud the windows rattled, poor Collins down on his knees on the carpet beside him, trying to calmly soothe her poor damaged boy until Selim would finally go limp with exhaustion, sobbing on the young butler’s shoulder.

            Her thoughts were interrupted as Collins at her elbow “Ma’am? There is home care nurse here to see Master Selim. A routine visit. Do you wish to see her?”

            Nurses were always stopping by, sometimes three times a day. They measured Selim’s vitals, ran some simple baseline neurological tests and kept notes in the log for Dr. Knox. “No, dear. Just show her upstairs and see to Selim’s lunch, if you please.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

            “Hello, Selim.” The nurse’s dark brown hair was pulled back in a severe knot under her starched white cap. “Don’t be afraid. No needles this time. I just want to ask you some questions…oh, very, very simple ones. It will be a little like playing a game. “ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a red lollipop, which she unwrapped and handed to the simple-minded young man. “Now, let’s begin.”

            She showed him a series of pictures—a bird, a cat, a picture of Central Park.  “Very, very good, Selim.” She stepped to the door, glanced around, the closed and locked it. “Now, let’s see if you know some of _these_ faces.”

            A pale man in a crisp military uniform, his black hair neatly combed back under a uniform cap with a silver badge. “That’s the General. He comes to tea. He brings me picture books sometimes,” Selim confided proudly.

A strange, ugly man in a white coat with a gold tooth. A dark-haired woman with long, long fingers. A youngish man with a sharp, toothy grin and sunglasses. Another of a bald-headed man, childishly sucking on one finger. Selim stared and stared over these last three, frowning deeply.  “No?” she asked gently. “Do you know _him_ , then? Do you know this man?”

            Selim’s eyes grew wide. He touched the picture, tracing the image with his fingers. The image of a broad-shouldered man of middling years, his long pale hair pulled back into a neat pony tail and his squarish chin fringed with whiskers.

            _“F…Fa…ther??”_

            Kelley Winchell _beamed_.  From her large nurse’s bag she drew out a small 8mm movie camera. Selim did not even notice. “Selim, is that man the father? Is he?”

            “Fa….ther….Fath…er…” His face began to crumple. “Father… _hurt!”_

            She handed him another lollipop and the young man jammed it into his mouth, sucking violently on it. “It’s all right, Selim…you’re safe…it’s just a picture. He is long, long gone…he can’t hurt you ever, ever again. Is that man your father, Selim?”

            “Father… _hurt!”_

‘That man…Hohenheim Elric….did he hurt you, Selim? Did he clap his hands and make lights and scare you? Did….The… _Father_ ….hurt you like that??”

            She had to quickly jam the camera in her bag, still running, while she dove for the door, unlocking it just as that annoying young butler ran upstairs as Selim began to curl himself into a knot, his screams rising and rising as he began to rock violently, back and forth.

            “I don’t have any sedatives,” she gasped. “I’m just a visiting nurse. You watch him and I’ll go call for help….”

            In the chaos that followed she was able to slip out the kitchen door, duck down the alley and  dive into the car she had borrowed from a friend of Frank Archer. She tore off the dark wig and nurse’s cap, tugged a knitted winter cap and drove around the corner to the nearest phone box. Dropping a coin in the slot, she dialed the emergency operator. “I was walking my dog outside the Bradley’s big house,” she told the operator frantically. “Somebody is just screaming and screaming in there…it sounds like somebody’s getting hurt. _Can someone please hurry??_ ”

           

            “This is going to cost you.”

            Frank Archer smiled at his accomplice, and if she had not been shaking so badly she would have caught the contempt in his voice. “Cash or royalty percentages on the book?”

            “Fuck you.” She swallowed a burning mouthful of top shelf whiskey, shuddering at it hit her stomach. Her hands trembled so much he had to light her cigarette for her. “That’s the last time I’m setting foot near that kid.”

            “You got the film.”

            “In the bag.” 

            Archer examined the camera. “You shot the whole reel?” He frowned. “That’s—what, four and a half minutes? What speed were you shooting? If it’s too slow it’ll look like hell in a newsreel. Okay—looks like 15 frames per second. That’ll be okay. That’s a lot of wasted frames if it was running in your handbag. What did you get?”

            “What you wanted. Corroborating evidence. Except,” she took a deep drag and blew it towards the ceiling, “you can’t convict a dead man, and you can’t convict his sons for what he did.”

            “That’s not what we have in mind, Kel.” Archer clipped the end off his cigar and splashed another measure of brandy in his glass. “You’re thinking too small. “

            “Don’t insult me, you cretin!”

            Archer chuckled and reached inside his jacket. He tossed a heavily stuffed envelope towards Kelley. She tore it open eagerly. “There’s more where that came from. Our campaign has deep pockets—and something tells me donations to the Samuelson election fund are going to skyrocket once our little bombshell hits the bookshelves. You know, in Aerugo there was a revolt against the monarchy in the 1700’s because some idiot with patriotic dreams wrote a book about a peasant who stole bread to feed his dying sister, went to jail and when he came out started a revolution. It was a work of fiction that turned Aerugo upside down.  Never, _never_ , underestimate the power of the written word, my dear. Especially,” he added with a wink, “when you have lots and lots of pretty pictures to illustrate the story…”

###

 

            “Roy?? What the hell--? What the fuck are you doing, drinking at this hour? Shit—“

            Mustang was sitting in his office. The blinds were closed. By the dim light of the winter sunlight creeping through the cracks, the President of Amestris was reading the book Alphonse had brought him. It was an illustrated galley proof—the final pre-publication draft of a book, sent to authors prior to release. The photographs were not the same high resolution that would appear in the hardcover release but the images were clear enough and the damage had been done.

            Roy lifted his glass and toasted his lover. “The world is on fire, Edward. It’s burning down over our heads. There’s nothing I can do to put out the flames. Nothing.”

            “Gimme that!” Ed stared at the cover, read the title and felt sick to his stomach:

 

            _Blood and Fire: Alchemy, Genocide And The Ishvallan War of Extermination. Text by F. Archer and K. Winchell, illustrated with never-before seen photographs from the Bradley Archives._

                       

###

            _“Major Mustang…Major Mustang?”_

_The man was very weary, very dusty and reeked of smoke and the stink of charred corpses.  He had that thousand-yard-stare the soldiers talk about but his back was straight, his expression resolute. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now. I’m trying to locate Captain Hughes—“_

_The young junior officer with the camera was not easily put off. “Sir, if you’d care to comment about the operation in the Dahlia Sector—“_

_“I’m sorry. Move along, Corporal.”_

_“Sir…please!” The junior officer lowered his camera. “Those…those were people in there…women and children….you didn’t evacuate them??”_

_“Corporal…I am not at liberty to discuss the details of this mission. We are here to follow orders.”_

_“Major, I was right outside the gate…right outside the gate. There was a mother and her baby…they couldn’t get away from the flames. They…” he began blinking rapidly against the smoke and the tears rising in his eyes. “You just…snapped your fingers and…she didn’t even have time to scream.”_

_“Corporal, if you have any questions, address them to your commanding officer. Now if you will excuse me---“_

_A hand clutched at Mustang’s sleeve. “This—this is murder, sir!”_

_“This is war.” The baby-faced young State Alchemist stared down at Corporal Donal Samuelson, field photographer and telegraph operator from the First Signal Corps. The major’s face was a mask of ivory, streaked with blood and soot.  He seemed so cold, so remote and detached from the nightmare of blood and fire he had left in his wake. He was the pale face of mythic death incarnate. Pulling his arm free without a word, Major Roy Mustang walked away from Donal Samuelson, too numb to give him a second thought…_

_Until now…_

 

 


	20. SHADOWS ON GLASS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye’s quarrel with Havoc has taken its toll , prompting Dr. Knox to step in with an ultimatum. Meanwhile, Nina Elric proves just how influential Roy has been as a stepfather and her brother Maes discovers some historical evidence that former Fuhrer Bradley believed long since buried….evidence that could affect the lives of his widow and…”son”….

 

 

            Roy Mustang didn’t believe in polls.

            “That’s because you’ve never had anyone oppose you, dipshit,” Ed told his lover. “And I’m telling you, you better _start_ paying attention. I’m not saying you’re slipping but you’d better kiss a few more babies and kiss a few more asses around the country. Politics stink, but –“

            “—but there’s a rising backlash against the military roots of this nation. And like it or not,” Roy shook his head, “I’m part and parcel of the military. Even if I resigned my commission it’s not something I could escape, even if I wanted to.”

            Ed looked worried. “The book?”

            Roy didn’t have to ask which book Ed was referring to. _Blood And Fire: Alchemy, Genocide And The Ishvallan War of Extermination_ would be released in two weeks and the Mustang administration was bracing for a major backlash. “Don’t ask, Ed. I’m not going to—“

            “Goddamn you, Mustang!” Ed snapped. “You’re going to just sit here and let that bitch Winchell and that hack Frank Archer publish that piece of muck-raking—“

            “—pictures don’t lie, Ed. Do you think I’m such a fool that I didn’t know all these years that someday, _somehow_ , the whole bloody truth about the Dahlia campaign and Executive Order 3066 wasn’t going to come out? “

            “It wasn’t your fault!” Ed grabbed Roy by the shoulders, digging in his fingers to keep from punching his lover in frustration. “You were just a goddamn kid, following orders! Shit!” The angry grasp became a caress. “It’s not gonna end like this, is it? What are we gonna do?”

            In the days that followed Ed was to remember the clarity of Roy’s expression, the utter lack of fear and his stubborn insistence in Doing What Was Right.

            _“We’re going to tell the truth_

###

 _“_ Aunt Ree, would you like me to call Signor Bacalla for you?” Nina looked up from the absurdly long ‘must-do’ list of wedding arrangements that she’d offered to assist with. “I’m the only Elric who can truly speak his language.”

            Hawkeye smiled a little. The child was trying to help, but the President had made the wedding arrangements Hawkeye’s personal responsibility and she didn’t feel comfortable delegating any of the crucial details. “That’s all right, Nina. Signor Bacalla’s Amestrian is quite good.”

            Nina’s eyebrow lifted. “Think so?”

            “Chef Ramsay and I have never had any difficulties getting imported foods and wines for state dinners.”

            “And he’s overcharged you disgracefully!” Hawkeye opened her mouth to protest but Ed’s daughter waved her off. She gathered up the catering estimate for the wedding supper and then reached for the phone. “I spent a year in King Claudio’s palace in Aerugo. It was highly instructive, and not simply in the arts and sciences and statecraft. Listen and learn— _ascoltare e imparare_.”

            Nina dialed the international operator and waited for Mario Bacalla, Pio’s half-Xingese son whose real father was the esteemed Royal Alkahestry Master to the court of Emperor Ling Yao, Dr. Kenichi Chen. Marrying Dr. Chen’s Drachman sweetheart and giving Nataly’s child a name had been one of the best business decisions Pio Ignacio Bacalla had ever made.  Mario had a tremendous crush on the older Nina Elric and she manipulated the young apprentice merchant as skillfully and shamelessly as her beloved Poppy would have done with an office full of adoring secretaries in the Bradley command. _“”Mario? Mio caro amico, sa bene a parlare con te di nuovo, questa è Nina Elric – e dal modo,_ “ she winked at Hawkeye, _“il profumo che mi hai mandato per il mio compleanno è semplicemente perfetta! “_   (“Mario? My dear friend, it’s good to talk to you again, This is Nina Elric—and by the way, the perfume you sent my on my birthday was perfect!”) “For killing moths,” Nina mouthed as an aside to the older woman she’d always regarded as her auntie. “May I please speak to your papa, _per favore?_ Thank you so much, _mio amico!”_

            After a moment, Nina’s posture changed and her voice became charming and persuasive in a manner Hawkeye had heard many times in the old days back at Central when it was Roy who wore a Colonel’s stars on his shoulder boards. “Signor Bacalla? Nina Elric. I’m well, _grazie_. My father? Yes, he’s still alive…but I wouldn’t let that depress you. Now then,” she adjusted her delicate rimless spectacles and snatched up the notes she had penciled in on Bacalla’s estimate for catering services, “Colonel Hawkeye and His Excellency and Chef Ramsay and I have all gone over your estimate…I’m afraid that there are some items that might need to be…. _re-negotiated.._ ”

            Over the next hour, any doubts that young Nina had learned much as Roy Mustang’s stepdaughter would be laid firmly to rest. “Tact,” Roy had commented in Hawkeye’s hearing, “is the art of telling a man he’s a son of a bitch and have him thank you for the compliment.” From that perspective, Nina handled her father’s old nemesis with remarkable skill. Hawkeye wasn’t quite fluent in Aerugoan but she caught a few references about horsemeat being found in sausages sold to Brigg’s Mountain, fat from forbidden animal species being shipped to the Letoist restaurants to save money, undercutting the Xingese court by mixing quality spice with minute quantities of sawdust and re-labeling wines to fetch a better price. She was warm and cordial…and the threats woven into her cheery dialog were as masterful as they were slightly unnerving. Nina was _never_ coy, never kittenish, but by damn she was playing the man with the same skill that skyrocketed Roy Mustang to the presidency.

            “ _Si, si…_ by my calculations that would be an error of…” she calculated in her head, “roughly 11261.43 Aerugoan lira—that’s 1351124.955 Amestrian cens ,15,000 continental exchange units—or 93277.5 Xingese Yuan. Yes, yes, I know, Signor—however the integrity of such delicate matters like a Presidential wedding—the first in Amestrian history—requires that all transactions must be above reproach…oh, and I believe you and Nataly were searching for some of the older dairy culturing bacteria strains for your cheeses— _Propionibacterium shermanii and Streptococcus faecalis?_ No, _signor_ , I am not joking. Yes,” she was grinning now, “that would enable you to recreate some of the legendary cheeses of the last century. If….if we could re-negotiate your estimate as I suggested I can certainly provide the necessary introductions to the dairymen in the East who can provide those rare cheesemaking cultures… _si.._ ” She scribbled a new total and held it up to an amazed Colonel Hawkeye, who nodded quickly to agree. “Excellent, Signor. I’ll inform Colonel Hawkeye and Chef Ramsay of the new estimate. _Ciao!”_ She hung up the phone and the smug satisfaction on her pretty face would have done her stepfather proud. “As they say in Aerugo, _‘_ _È il pesce sciocco che cade nella rete’_ —only the foolish fish fall into the net.’ In this case, we have netted up a big, ugly _baccalᾴ_ ,” she flinched at her own dreadful pun,

since the merchant’s name could be translated as ‘dried salted codfish’.

            Hawkeye shook her head in amazement. “I had no idea you were so skilled in negotiations.”

            Nina looked demure, taking a ladylike sip of her tea. “This is Daddy’s wedding, and I’m not going to allow Signor Peehole to pull one over on an Elric. I spent a lot of time in the palace library in Aerugo—and while I found the writings of Signor Machiavelli to be morally vile they were _highly_ instructive. Now,” she reached for the massive wedding checklist again. “Let’s have a look at the bid from the florists, shall we?”

            The door opened and Havoc shouldered his way in, carrying several stacks of heavy file boxes. “Nina? I’ve got those receipts you asked for—had to get them out of the warehouse— _whoops!”_ Havoc caught his foot on the umbrella stand that normally would not be placed on that side of the office door, sprawling flat onto the carpet and whacking his head hard enough to make him groan.

            “Uncle Jean! Are you all right?” Nina hurried over to his side and inspected his scalp. “Let me look.” Reaching into her skirt pocket she drew out a small penknife, tucked inside her handkerchief. Pretending to examine Havoc’s head she made a quick shallow cut, blotting it with her handkerchief, quickly concealing the tiny knife inside her sleeve. “Oh! You’ve really hurt yourself!” Nina held up the handkerchief, spotted lightly with fresh blood. “Aunt Ree, you’ve got to get Uncle Jean to Doctor Knox!”

            “But—“

            “He could have a concussion!”

            “Aren’t you studying medicine?”

            “I’m not qualified to practice on military personnel,” Nina argued. “Please, Aunt Ree!”

            Hawkeye felt a queer thumping inside her breast and her cheeks grew hot. Her face was as impassive as ever. “Come along, Major. I’ll get you to the Infirmary.”

            Havoc nodded, then grimaced in pain. As Hawkeye helped him to his feet, he noticed Nina’s right eye closing in a slow wink. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thanks for looking out for me, kiddo.”

            “Aunt Ree will take care of you,” she answered as innocently as she could. Signor Machiavelli’s writings might be unethical by Amestrian standards but, as the morning had proved, all bets were off when Nina Elric was looking after the people she loved….

           

            In the car heading to the infirmary, he did not beg her to come back, as he would have a month ago. Instead he was quietly grateful for her kindness and spoke to her with a gentleness that tugged at Riza’s heart. She could smell his familiar cologne—she had picked it out for him, and he was sitting close enough for the warmth of his body to be noticeable in ways that she found disturbing. “By the way,” he mentioned, “that new experimental rifle arrived from Briggs this morning. The Enfiled EM2. They call it the Bullpup. Takes a .280 slug.”

            “That’s not standard ammunition.”

            “I know, but Major General Armstrong says it’s lighter to carry in the field and the accuracy is impressive.”

            “You’ve tested it?”

            “I haven’t unpacked it yet. I was going to do that after lunch.”

            “Oh.”

            “Sebastian and Ruby were coming to test it out at the range.  Hell, ol’ Sebby even said he’d bring tea. For a body guard he’s got a weird sense of humor.”

            “Indeed.”

            “I think Collins is going to try and get over if Mrs. Bradley doesn’t need him.”

            “Mmm.”

            “We’ll all be over on Range 22 around three if you want to test things…I mean, if you want to test fire it with the…with the rest of us.”

            The pounding in her chest was making her ears ring and she felt distinctly uncomfortable. “I’ll…bear that in mind, Major..”

###

 “Get dressed. I’m calling Mustang.”

            Before Riza Hawkeye protest, Surgeon General Owen Knox snatched the phone off the hook and dialed his Commander in Chief. The nurse at the Triage noticed that Hawkeye was looking unwell and once she’d sent Havoc back had whispered a word with Dr. Knox. Before she could protest Hawkeye was escorted to an exam room and poked and prodded. Knox had come back, examined her chart and given Riza Hawkeye holy hell…

 “Yeah. It’s me. What the hell are you trying to do, kill your Adjutant, Roy? She’s sitting in my exam room and when I tested her blood pressure it nearly blew the cuff right off her arm! No, I’m not joking. What the hell are you doing—driving her like a slave?? She’s going on furlough for a week, starting right now and by the time she gets back you damn well better appoint some staff under her so she can delegate some of that mountain of work you’ve dumped on her. She’s only human—or have you forgotten that _again_?” Dr. Knox slammed the phone down and then snatched up her medical chart. “How old was your mother when she died?” he demanded. “She died young, I know. What caused it.”

            “About twenty-seven,” Hawkeye answered. “My father never told me but he said it was sudden.”

            “About as sudden as a heart attack?” Knox looked like he was about to bite her. “No? Nobody ever thinks about women and heart disease. I’ve seen it run in families. Women who tell me that one day their mother wasn’t feeling well then boom! Keels over and drops dead, no warning. And then I check their blood pressure and I see numbers I don’t like.”  His finger stabbed at the numbers on Hawkeye’s medical chart. “And I really don’t like these numbers, Colonel. I’m not saying you’re about to drop dead. But—“ his finger wagged in her face now, “—I’m also saying that if these numbers don’t go down in six month I’m going to have to consider giving you a medical discharge from the Army.”

            Medical _discharge_? Hawkeye paled visibly. “Sir, with all due respect, I can’t—“

            “You can and you _will_ , or by damn I will sign your discharge papers so fast it’ll make your head spin. And I’m not done with Mustang. That man has worked you to death since he’s been in office—and now he’s got you worrying over his goddamn wedding?  That’s not your problem. And you, lady, need to let your Adjutant staff do the legwork. You’re tired, you’re not sleeping well, you’re less alert and likely to make stupid mistakes---and your blood pressure is through the damn roof. You still on the outs with Havoc?”

            Before she could censor herself she shot back, “that’s none of your business!”

            “I’m the goddamn Surgeon General. Everything is my business, right up to and including Roy Mustang’s bowel movements. All I know is that you’ve been cross as two sticks since before Solstice and now you’re sitting in my triage looking like death warmed over and your blood pressure is absolutely not acceptable. If it makes you feel better, go boot Mustang in the ass. I don’t care. But seems to me that with the wedding and,” his eyes narrowed,” _other things_ ,  you’ve got a lot stuck in your craw, lady—and if you’re dead you won’t get a chance to get things off your chest. Now,” his eyes were concerned even though his voice was snapping with irritation, “take these papers to Mustang. Here’s a ‘scrip for blood pressure medication and something mild to help you sleep. I want you back in six weeks and those numbers better start looking better…or else you’d better start thinking about early retirement…”

###

            One of Maes’ grand obsessions from earliest childhood was photography and film. At the age of five Winry had given him an old box camera that used old fashioned glass plate negatives  and the boy became obsessed with it.  Eventually Sig had converted an old linen closet in the Dublith house into a dark room and Maes saved his allowance for film and developing chemicals. He could have built his cameras and his crystal radios through alchemy like his sister but both Izumi and Winry insisted he learn electronics the hard way, wiring every component by hand. Eventually he went to Stoltovgrad for a summer of study and came back with his own movie camera, and while he was focusing now on building aeroplanes with his father his passion for photography and radio and film had never wavered.

            Maes had been testing out some new skyrockets with some other students at the Hohenheim, capable of shooting out bursts of three colors in a great firery blossoms that lit up the sky for miles.  Uncle Ling had sent a big box of them, along with a note that he hoped he would be able to come to Central for Ed’s wedding along with his six favorite wives and nineteen of his oldest children. Maes wanted to rig up an electronic firing device that would be safer than running around lighting fuses by hand.  While his sister wrangled on the phone with Bacalla, Maes checked and rechecked his circuitry, grinning hugely. “Nothing like spending an afternoon with explosives and electricity,” he crowed, punching the ignition button on his homemade control panel.

            There was a satisfying _whoooooshhhhhhh_ as the large skyrocket took off, followed by the crash of broken glass. “I think it hit the old green house,” one of his friends told him.

            “ _Crap,_ You guys get out of here,” Maes yelled. “Sebastian is going to be pissed!” _And Dad will skin me alive for shooting off stuff too close to the house_ , he added to himself. He ducked into the garden shed where his Nana had given him an epic ass-whipping at Solstice and waited for the eagle-eyed major domo to come out to investigate. After a half hour the young man came out of hiding and headed up the garden path to check out the damage.

            As kids they had been ordered to keep clear of the old greenhouse. It was unsafe and there was a high risk of the rickety structure coming down on someone’s head. Uncle Roy hadn’t ordered it razed for some reason and it eventually became entangled in wild bramble-roses and honeysuckle.

            Hands on his hips, Maes studied the ramshackle mess. He grinned. “”Why the hell hasn’t someone fixed it up with alchemy? Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Fishing a nubbin of chalk out of his pocket he marked a simple array on the splintered wooden door and touched it carefully with his palms. His face got scratched as the rose canes blew off the walls but in an instant the framework was sturdy and the panes exposed to the sun once more. “Not bad…not bad at all,” he congratulated himself “Nitwit might like this. She likes to putter around with bulbs and stuff,” he planned aloud with no one but a few spiders to overhear. Spitting on a corner of his handkerchief, he rubbed at a half-darkened square of glass. “Get this cleaned up and clear, and then I’ll see if the Tringhams can kit it out for her this spring…hey…what the….?”

            Leaning in, he examined the smudged glass. It wasn’t dirt. It was the negative image of a man’s face on a photographic glass negative plate and it was very old indeed.  Peering closely, he recognized the image at once.

“King Bradley? Well, I’ll be dipped in shit!”

           

###

            “Shadows on glass, Donal. Shadows on glass that can change the future.”

            After flipping through the final publisher’s proof of _Blood and Fire_ , Donal Samuelson was shaking his head. “All those years ago…I’m surprised my glass negatives survived. A lot of the glass got resold to builders for greenhouses and other uses. Once they were coated with the silver salts solution to create the negative they were useless for pretty much anything else. I sold off most of the plates and kept copies of some of the albumen print photos because I knew…one day…I would take them all down.”

            Archer looked thoughtful. “You hated Mustang that much?”

            “Mustang…that bastard Kimblee. Old man Comanche—glad the Alchemist Killer took him down, the bastard.”

            “Not Armstrong?”

            Samuelson shook his head. “Didn’t have the guts. Heard he broke and cried like a baby and they demoted him for cowardice. No wonder his sister hated his guts for years. But Mustang was the highest rank and did the most horrific damage—you think the pictures are bad? You didn’t smell the stink of roasted bodies. You didn’t hear them screaming. No,” he closed the book resolutely. “Mustang was no innocent kid. He’s a stone-cold killer. And I’ve been waiting…all these damn years for a chance to take him down. “

            Something dawned on Archer and his eyes narrowed. “You were feeding information to the Old Guard. You were helping Edison and Foster and the others.”

            “I’m a _patriot_ ,” Samuelson snapped. “And Mustang’s got enough rope to hang himself now that he’s insisting on making this country a democracy. Ha! I hope they hang the bastard!”

            Frank Archer nodded. “You might get your wish, pal. You just might get your wish….”

###

            Maes brought a bucket of water and a soft grooming brush from the stables and began gently cleaning off more of the panes of the old greenhouse, panes he had now identified as old photographic negative plates.

             The old bramble-rose and the honeysuckle had kept the structure shady enough to protect a great deal of the images on the sides of the greenhouse. The winter sun was thin but just bright enough that he could study some of the clearer images. There was a group of young men in an exercise yard. A man—a doctor, maybe?—measuring a boy’s height. Another picture of Bradley, looking surprisingly young. “Wow..these have got to be from—hell, must be the 1800’s. Look at the weird-assed clothes—“

            _“Boo!”_

            “AAAAHGGHHHHH!”  Maes swung around, grabbing at his chest. His sister was smiling sweetly at him, looking terribly pleased with herself. “Damn it, Nitwit, don’t _do_ that! Give me a damn heart attack!”

            “Only guilty people have heart attacks. You weren’t indulging in any carnal vices out here, were you?” She looked around. “Hmm…there’s a noticeable absence of young butlers or foreign girls about, so I’m guessing you’ve been keeping your hands to yourself.”

            Maes hefted the bucket of soapy water. “You’re about to get drenched.”

            “And you’re about to get chewed out by Poppy if he finds you out here. My, my…if you’re going to indulge in the sins of self-pollution, why not fondle yourself someplace less likely to come crashing down over your head?”

            “Look what I found!”

            Adjusting her glasses, Nina leaned in for a closer look. “Hmmm…I’ve heard of such things. I heard of someone making a conservatory with old xray plates but I didn’t believe it. Have you shown this to Daddy yet?”

            Maes shook his head. “He and Uncle Roy have been squabbling a lot lately. And I’m not going to ask why.”

            “Tell Uncle Alphonse, then. At best he might be interested, and at worse he might save you from getting yelled at.”

            “Better yet, let’s let Uncle Jean in on this. He can keep a secret.”

            Nina beamed. “He’s on the shooting range with Aunt Riza.”

            Maes whistled. “No foolin’? How’d you manage that?”

            “Can’t tell you _all_ my secrets, can I ?”

            “Well, get Uncle Al—and see if you can get me a couple of tarps. I want to rig up something to protect these panes until I can take this greenhouse apart without having it crash down on my head.”

            “Tarp—check. Uncle--check. Absolute secrecy—check. Anything else?”

            “ _What the fuck??”_

“Sorry, fresh out of those. Seriously, is there anything—“

            “Will you look at _that!?!”_

            One pane of glass held a negative image that looked very, very familiar. The last time he’d seen that face it was crumpled up and screaming after he’d attempted to repair a broken gingerbread house with alchemy.

            _“Son of a bitch,” Nina whispered, ”it’s Selim Bradley!”_

 

…TO BE CONTINUED…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (HISTORICAL NOTES: According to historians, many of the thousands of plate glass negatives taken during the Civil War were sold off cheaply for the constructions of greenhouses or salvaged for the silver content of the images. Legendary Civil War photojournalist Matthew Brady--whose battlefield photos and his exhibition 'The Dead At Antietam' inspired parts of 'Our Lives', was one of those whose glass negatives were scrapped. In the documentary series "The Civil War" by Ken Burns the recounting of the greenhouses build from negatives is mentioned in the final episode)  
> FMA Notes: For more about Selim Bradley's photos, the manga and "FMA Brotherhood" episode 48 includes the last meeting in the series between Roy and Madame Christmas where she shows Roy the photos of Selim dating back to 1850's and 1860's, proving that he is far, far older than he seems


	21. "ONE MAN'S WORDS ON A WINTER'S NIGHT"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphonse decides to give Roy an image makeover before his big presidential debate—with Roy fighting every inch of the way—and in the end Roy chooses to risk it all and lay his heart on the line for the Amestrian people.

OUR LIVES CHAPTER 21: ONE MAN’S WORDS ON A WINTER’S NIGHT

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

            “The timing of all this sucks!” Ed thundered, shoving his coffee cup aside and smacking the table so hard the silver rattled. “Goddamn it, Roy, isn’t there anything you can do to change the date of the Central debate?”

            Nina shot her father a sympathetic look over her hot buttered waffles and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but the League of Women Voters set the date. I seriously doubt that they were thinking about Kelley Winchell when they picked it.”

            “I think,” Alphonse ventured carefully, “that since it’s going to happen—and it’s going to  happen the day before that book comes out, well….couldn’t you use it to your advantage?”

            Roy put down his napkin. “I’m open to suggestions, Al. What do you have in mind?”

           

            “ _You??”_

“Hiya, Mistah President!” The Ice Cream Blonde sashayed into the Presidential office wearing a skirt so tight it must have been painted on. She lingering in Central, shooting her scenes in the film version of the musical _The Fullmetal Alchemist_ , and Roy offered a silent prayer to gods he did not believe in, grateful that Hawkeye was on a brief medical furlough and was missing this little meeting. Roy had not been pleased to learn about the so called ‘café catfight’ between his colonel and the starlet and was willing to go to any length to avoid Round Two. “Alphonse said you _needed_ me.”  There was something disconcerting in the way her tongue darted out and flicked her lower lip that made Roy immediately add “set fire to Al’s office’ to his personal to-do list for the day. “I’m always glad to lend you a… _hand_ …or anything else you might need.” Roy immediately corrected himself. He would not set Al’s office on fire for this. He would set Al’s trousers on fire—and Al would be in them.

            “Er…Miss…Turlough. Ah…good to see you,” he stammered. “I’m not…uhhh…not completely sure why Alphonse---“

            She leaned in close. “—isn’t he just the _sweetest_ fellah? I could just eat him up like a sugar cookie!”

            Roy stepped back a fraction. She was invading his personal space and he feared it might carbonate his hormones, for all that he’d been committed to another man for over fifteen years. There was something _animal_ about this woman—like some demented candy-colored pantheress—who cut these hot, lazy eyes at him and every coo’ed syllable seemed dripping with obscene possibilities.  _Havoc, buddy—you never stood a chance against this one. She’s a subtle as a charging chimera. And what the hell is that perfume she’s wearing?_ “Alphonse has always been…er..ah…a valued member of my staff…”

            Her beestung lips turned down into a luscious pout. “Wassamatta, Mistah President? You look all nervous. You’re startin’ to _sweat_.”  Reaching into her cleavage she pulled out a lacy handkerchief and she gently blotted Roy’s forehead. “I didn’t come over this morning to make you all jittery. I gotta get you all… _relaxed_.”

            “I’m _fine_ , Miss Turlough.” Did that really come out an octave higher than Roy’s normal voice?

            “No,” she contradicted coquettishly. “You’re all… _stiff._ ” Roy glanced nervously down at his own crotch. _Traitor_ , he thought to his penis. _Down, boy!_ “See, that’s what Mistah Alphonse said. He was worried, ‘cause that Samuelson is all smiles and handshakes in public. He does the glad-hand real good, ya know?” She shifted her weight forward and pressed herself lightly against him. “That’s what you don’t know, Mistah President. You’re real smart and all, and you’re really swell at your job—but you don’t really know a damn thing about _people_.”

            Sweat prickled along his spine, and as soon as he could get away from this pink-lipped python of lust he would lock himself in the men’s room and threaten his member with cold water, ice—even circumcision---for embarrassing him like this. _It must be chemicals. Hormones…pheromones, whatever. Like a cat in heat that other cats can smell for miles._  “I…beg to differ…”

            “I’m gonna get right to the point, Roy,” she whispered. “You ain’t a baby-kisser.”

            He blinked nervously. “Ah…wha..what?”

            “You don’t’ walk into a room. You march in and take no prisoners. Oh,” she amended, “it’s not like you’re not charming and all that. But you’re all serious. Samuelson knows how to get people to like him. We gotta find your style. I want you to come into that debate tonight and make ‘em love you. ‘Cause if they love you, they’ll lissen. Samuelson, they _like._ They lissen to him on the radio. He shows up to open new supermarkets and stores. He goes to movie premiers and the theater. _Everybody_ knows him. Heck, he even does commercial on the radio! Now,” she was smiling up at him now, “what WE gotta do is change your style a little. Teach you the glad-hand game. I hear that Mistah Edward used to do that. That’s how he got to be the ‘alchemist of the people’, right?”

            Roy frowned, recalling when Edward had schemed to use himself as bait to lure out the enemy by thrusting himself in the public eye as the charming, boyish ‘alchemist of the people’, stealing headlines and dashing heroically around the city in a ridiculous manner that splashed his picture over front pages nationwide. “I’m going to have to make a fool of myself? Is that what you’re saying, Miss Turlough?”

            The blonde curls bobbed. “Goodness, no! Nothin’ like that! But we gotta…I dunno…change the brand. Spruce you up. Warm you up. Everybody knows you’re brave. Everybody knows you would die for this country…and the trouble is, they’ve known this for _ages._ They’re _used_ to you. Samuelson has ‘em shook up. So…we gotta do some… _shakin’_ …of our own.” To his horror, her hands darted over his buttons, so fast he didn’t have a chance to protest. His uniform coat was open and she was tugging at his trousers. “Now…let’s get you out of that stuffy ol’ uniform….”

###

            The idea was ridiculous. “That has to be the single most effective party-killer of all time.”

            By _that_ , Kelley Winchell meant the exhibit of sepia-toned photographs that were now covered with white dust cloths in the private room of the gallery where her book release was going to be held tomorrow night. She shuddered, pulling her furs closer. Archer found it amusing that Kelley Winchell could co-author a book she had no intention of reading— _ever_. She had agreed to stand in the reception, greeting the press and posing for pictures, but she absolutely would not go into the gallery where prints from the book’s photos were on display. No, she told herself, that was Archer’s bailiwick, not hers.

            _“It’s a fill-in-the-blanks no brainer, Kel, “_ he had told her. _“You read my text and notes. You give it your spin—the punters love your writing style. Don’t take it overboard. Then I edit into the story behind the photographs. We get this story of this young bunch of kids—fresh, you know? Wet behind the ears. One of them is top of the class. Mustang. Good-looking. Ambitious. Gets written up for fighting, sticking up for the underdog at school. Another classmate tries to get him written up for something that looks a lot like sodomy and fraternizing but he manages to get out of it. Then he gets ambitious and goes for the State Alchemy license, shooting fireballs and blowing things to hell. Presents himself to the army as a living weapon and the brass falls for it. Heads out to Ishbal during the Dahlia Campaign and he and Zolf Kimblee blow the place apart. Gets in a battle and he and his butt-buddy Hughes go murder their old school chum Heathcliff Arber. In the middle of this, a young rookie, a signal corps photographer named Donal Samuelson gets assigned to the campaign. He sees the slaughter, right? It’s a total bloodbath. He hates it—even tries to get Mustang to stop using the alchemy to burn the cities, but it doesn’t work. So he makes a vow that he’s going to bring this story to daylight one day…and here’s the evidence. Neat, huh?”_

Neat? How could _anyone_ use such a trivial word to describe those hideous images of charred people, broken buildings, sobbing refugees and a single terrifying image of a lone man, gloved hand upraised, coaxing a holocaust of fire with the snap of his fingers? That photograph—that chilling icon—that was what had given Kelley Winchell nightmares since that terrible afternoon when Frank Archer showed her his portfolio of rare war prints that he intended to make into a bestseller.

           

            Now people were going to _pay_ to see those grisly images. They were going to sip champagne and listen to high-toned music and nibble on canapés and imported Drachman caviar and chitchat and press the flesh…and then they were going to walk back into that gallery and see those damned photographs and probably vomit all over their nicely polished shoes.

            Images of a man’s corpse, grinning in rictus, his burned body fused to the body of the dead cart horse he had fallen against. A blistered baby desperately trying to suck milk from a dead woman’s breast. A man staggering for help, his ruined eyes burst in their sockets, the entire upper part of his head completely void of flesh. The first time she had flipped through this horror show of images she had to dash to the ladies’ loo and had spattered her imported leather slingbacks with her luncheon.  And worse, tucked in with all the hideous images were snaps of grinning soldiers, drinking and celebrating their victory---and the pale, soot-marred face of the Hero of Ishbal himself, his long flowing coat like the wings of a great carrion crow, flying like a shadow over the streets of the dead. A pretty boy soldier with the heart of a killer, knee deep in a river of mud and gore.

            _Roy Mustang._

            If there was a god named Ishballa—and for once Kelley Winchell hoped there was—he would damn the soul of the Flame Alchemist to a hell beyond imagining where he would confront each of the thousand souls he had murdered through his unholy alchemy and suffer what they had suffered, right down to their last, pitiful breaths….

###

            With all the stress over the book, the election, and now the pile of glass negatives that Al had ordered recovered from the old greenhouse, Alphonse was in great need of a good belly laugh these days.

            He got one—at the President’s expense.

 

            If he lived a hundred years—and bearing his ancestry in mind, that seemed to be pretty likely—Alphonse Elric would never forget the screams and shouts coming from the Presidential Office. He bit his lower lip. He tried to mentally recite the periodic table of elements. He tried manfully to control himself but then there would be another surprisingly high pitched yelp of protest from Roy and Alphonse would lose control, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter only to have it escape out his nose in a disgraceful snort.

            Sheska had already fled and Havoc was fast behind her, his ears flaming crimson with embarrassment. Breda alone stood guard, arms crossed, his face impassive.

            “He can fend her off if she gets too---“ Breda made a gesture that did not require much interpretation.

            “I told her we needed to get him into civilian dress,” Al insisted. “I didn’t say he needed her help.” Al had stepped out after breakfast to consult with the President’s tailor—a wasp-tongued but impeccably dressed fellow named Carson who had thrown up his hands and cried ‘about damn time!’, dragging Al to several shops to procure what Carson had pronounced as ‘comfortable clothing—not for _him_ , darling—something that makes everyone else feel comfortable around him.’  Several ensembles were assembled, paid for and transported by taxi to the Presidential office.

            “Mr. Carson will come by to give him a once over before we leave for the debate,” Al told Breda. “There’s also a barber named Kyan who’ll get Roy a haircut and a manicure—he also said something about ‘neatening up’ Roy’s eyebrows, but I don’t think he’ll go for that.”  There was a loud crash and a shout that sounded like _‘get your hands out of my shorts, ma’am!_ ’.  “Guess I’d better go in there?” Al asked tentatively.

            “Before the guards do, yeah,” Breda agreed.

            Before they could move, the double oak doors opened with a bang. “TAA-DAHHHHH!!! “ Gladys Turlough shouted in triumph. “Don’t he look fantastic?”

           

            “Fantastic” was not an adjective that Alphonse would have used to describe another man, but even Breda grinned, gave his boss a thumbs-up. “Looking sharp, Sir!”

            Instead of a formal suit, Carson had chosen simple dark wool trousers, a single breasted navy jacket that hinted ever so slightly of Roy’s riding coat. _“Everyone knows he’s a horseman,”_ Carson had suggested. _“His casual clothing should reflect that he’s an active man, not some spoiled dandy that spends his days drinking brandy and playing chess.”_   The shirt was open at the neck with a simple cravat, and he wore braces and no waistcoat. _“Casual and elegant. Relaxed, yet powerful. Samuelson will be wearing some dreary dark suit. They’ll be expecting Mustang to dress up in the usual dreary cap and uniform. Let’s throw them off guard.”_

            Roy looked smartly turned out and absolutely furious. “Alphonse,” he said in a voice that was terrifyingly calm. “Did you _suggest_ to Miss Turlough that I am not capable of dressing myself?”

            “He needed a little _push_ to get the idea,” she  beamed. “Okay, maybe I took the liberty—“

            “— _several_ liberties, ma’am!”

            “—but he looks so nice, I might want to steal him away for myself!”

            The mental image of Edward Elric AND Riza Hawkeye racing to scratch Gladys Turlough’s eyes out made the menfolk shudder. “Uhhhh….right,” Alphonse stammered. “Mr. Kyan’s going to give you a haircut and a manicure—“

            “—I had a haircut yesterday, Al---“

            ‘—a _better_ haircut---and then we can spend the rest of the afternoon---“

            “--teachin’ you how to give ‘me the glad-hand---“

            Roy headed straight for the window and flung it open. If he was lucky, he’d hit the bushes on the way down and he’d be able to out-run them, reaching the safety of his car before these lunatics---

            They dragged him back. Breda locked the windows and escorted Mr. Kyan in, scissors at the ready. “I can take you all on,” Roy threatened, lifting his hand as if ready to snap off a rain of fire inside his own office.”

            Al approached his old friend and laid his hands on Roy’s shoulders. “You’d do it for your country, wouldn’t you, soldier?”

            “She grabbed my ass, Al.”

            The younger alchemist nodded. “Sacrifice is demanded of the leaders of men.”

            Dark eyes were wide with indignation. “She _pinched_ it.”

            “I’ll see that you get a medal, sir.” He snapped his fingers. “Miss Turlough? Mr. Kyan? Breda? I want to see a brand new man in three hours.”

            _“YES, SIR!”_

 

            It was almost tea time when Ed was summoned in. “Doesn’t he look scrumptious?”

            Ed gave the Ice Cream Blonde a suspicious look, then saw the panic in his lover’s eyes. Roy’s virtue, Ed decided, was intact, but not without having put up one hell of a fight.

            Mr. Kyan and Mr. Carson exchanged smirks. “Would you fuck him, sweetie?” Carson inquired archly.

            After several thoughtful moments, Ed nodded. “Yeah. But then, “ he qualified, “I’ve fucked him in the stable with horse shit on his boots.”

            Roy’s left eyebrow lifted. “You flatter me.” He rounded on the two stylists. “And my private life is none of your business.”

            “What he means,” Gladys soothed, “is he loves you no matter what. So can we get someone who’s, ya know, objective?”

            Five minutes later, Owen Knox, Sebastian and Ruby were ushered in. “We’re going to beat Samuelson at his game,” Al explained. “We wanted to make Roy more—“

            “—human?” Mr. Carlson suggested.

            “Something like that,” Al agreed. “Opinions?”

            “His Excellency is properly turned out. His appearance is casual yet conservative. Wearing his hair swept down over the forehead gives him a less regimental appearance, much as he had in his younger days. His handkerchief is folded to perfection in the breast pocket. I can find no fault,” said Sebastian.

            “You almost look human,” growled Doctor Knox.

            “Whoohooo!” grinned Ruby.

            Alphonse smiled broadly. “Gentlemen—Miss Turlough? I think we’re ready for the debate.”

###

            “My job,” Donal Samuelson had informed the crowd. “is to tell you the truth and scare you half to death—and then to _show_ you, point by point, why I have hope for Amestris. Why I believe, with all my heart, that if we work together, that we are on the precipice of a new era of freedom, prosperity and the rebirth of Amestris as the undisputed leader of the free world.”

           

            “My ass hurts,” Havoc whispered to Breda in the audience. “And my ass is a pretty damn good barometer of a boring political speech.”

            “You’re immune to him,” Breda observed. “You’re listening to what he’s saying. You’re missing _how_ he’s saying it.  That’s what he gets right and the Boss gets wrong. The Boss is used to addressing soldiers, not Joe Blow and the man on the street.”

            “Isn’t that what all that crazy stuff was about this afternoon?” Havoc wanted to know.

            “Shhhhh—yeah. I guess it all depends on how well the Boss was listening.”

           

            He was good, Havoc had to admit. He was damned good. Samuelson oozed believability. There was sincerity in every line. His body language, pacing…all of it was spot on perfect. “Maybe a little _too_ perfect,” Breda agreed. “He’s out of his league. I think deep down he knows it and he’s bluffing.”

            ‘Hate to play that son of a bitch at cards,” Havoc admitted, “but then, he’s never played Mustang…”

           

            “…Amestris, we will always endure. We will always pull through. We will never give up. We are at the Great Crossroads, and together as one united people we will press on—press on against hopelessness, press on against the tyranny of the past, press on and rise above the last crumbled ruins of military dictatorship—and together we will greet the dawn of a new day. My friends, it is morning in Amestris…and I can’t wait to see what promise this new day has in store for us all. Thank you,” Samuelson bowed, “Madame Chairman. My thanks to you, ladies of the League of Women Voters, and to all the good people of Amestris. I yield the podium now to my esteemed opponent.”

            He glanced at the seat where his opponent should have occupied on the podium. It was empty.

            The Madame Chairman of the League rose, looking worried. “Ladies and gentlemen…my apologies. It seems President Mustang is---“

            “ _Right here, Ma’am.”_

            A friendly voice lifted over the confused mumblings of the crowd. “I’m here, Ma’am.”  Roy Mustang rose from the middle of the crowd, where he had apparently been seated throughout Samuelson’s speech. “Sorry for the confusion, “ he beamed to the people around him. “Mr. Samuelson gave an excellent speech to the Amestrian people. And when you’re president of a country it’s very easy to forget that, first and foremost, you _are_ one of the people. There’s just a little difference in your job description,” there was a chuckle from the crowd, “ and maybe you have an easier time getting a parking space downtown—oh, and when you want to go camping in the woods with your children you have a half-dozen big guys with concealed weapons sneaking around in the bushes when you need a moment of privacy since there’s no indoor plumbing available.” He strolled easily to the podium, bowing respectfully to each of the women on the committee. “And did I mention that you have to make campaign speeches? Terrifying thought, isn’t it? And occasionally getting shot at,” he touched his shoulder lightly. “I bet I know what you are all thinking tonight, listening to us speak and reading about the campaign in the papers, and watching all the newsreels. You’re thinking,” he stepped to the edge of the stage and smiled warmly at the crowd, “you’re thinking _‘you’ve got to be out of your mind to want to do this for a living!’_ And who knows, you could very well be right! Or maybe,” his voice lowered into that range that could raise goosebumps on any woman and many a man, “maybe….it’s because you’ve found something you love more than your own life—more than anything. You’ve found that you love your homeland…you love her and want to protect and nurture her so much that you are willing to do whatever you have to do—jump through any kind of hoops, even come up on stage and risk making a fool of yourself—if that’s what it takes to show people how very, very much they mean to you—and to remind them that the guy in the big black car in the uniform with the shiny gold braid _is just one other Amestrian who loves his motherland._

            “It’s that simple. It really is _that_ simple.” He sat down on the edge of the stage and spoke to every man and woman in the crowd, eye to eye, one at a time. “What were the options for serving your country back in the 1800’s—back when some of us were kids? We were a military state, remember? If you wanted to serve, you joined the military. That was it—oh, unless you were a _woman_. Then they told you, “go home, raise a family and keep your mouth shut.’ Let me tell you, as father of a grown daughter I _know_ what you ladies must have been thinking when you were told that.  And as mothers it must have broken your hearts to send generation after generation to war after war.

            “My esteemed opponent talks about corruption in the military regime—and he would be right…if he’s talking about the past he would be right. I _know_ what it means to be one of those sons who wanted to serve his country and found himself sent off to kill his fellow man for reasons that made no sense whatsoever.  I fought on the Eastern Front, and I am willing to bet that those men and women who served on the other fronts could agree with me. We were young and naïve and we followed orders. And in my case, I began to question them the day I found one of my best friends on the battlefield…and he shot me….and our mutual friend had to shoot him to save my life.”

            His voice was soft and mesmerizing now. “Does that make _sense_ to you? Someone---a people---that had nothing my country needed, had lived in peace with us for generations…one day those people became my enemies and yours. And you’d say, “Roy, they rose up and rebelled! They attacked first!’. And you’d be right---because someone from our military killed one of their children. And as a father…if it were my son or my daughter…I may not condone that…but I can understand where that anger comes from. And that’s how it was from border to border, nation to nation—not always a child but there was some tipping point that pushed things to the breaking point and lo and behold, Amestris was at war _again._

“And on one spectacularly blood-soaked day, the day I faced my friend in battle, _I…woke…up_.” Roy made an emphatic gesture.

            The auditorium was silent.

            “I said, ‘no more’. I told my best friend, Brigadier General Maes Hughes, that I would do everything in my power to help stop this insanity.

            “And… _we did_.” His voice was barely a whisper but it carried to every corner of a room filled with men and women hanging onto his every word.

            “WE did…the men and women who swore to protect this country and protect you, her people. Military…civilians…allies from beyond our borders who fought side by side with us…alchemists and housewives—“ Edward and Alphonse grinned at each other, both thinking of Izumi. “—we worked together, not counting the cost because it was worth it. _YOU_ are worth it.

            He let the thoughtful silence linger. “And now we have peace.” He searched their faces. “And you have grown used to peace and prosperity. We are in the 20th century now and we have a sense of goodwill that is unprecedented in the history of this country. And the next step is democracy…placing the government into the hands of the people. It is your right and you are ready for it.  Mr. Samuelson and his supporters believe that the only way the country can move forward is to dismiss the military from the government…and that means me. I am one of the last appointed government leaders in this nation. Yes…I am a general. Yes, I wear the uniform and follow the military code I was raised to follow, like my father and his father before him. Mr. Samuelson says you should not trust me. I can’t make that call for you.

            “But instead of making a campaign speech tonight…I want _you_ to do the talking. This isn’t about me or Donal Samuelson. It’s about _you_. You and your children and the children yet to come.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ve been talking for ten minutes. We’ve got twenty more minutes. I’m going to be quiet now—I want you to talk to _me._ Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

 

            After a long silence, a factory worker stood up, cap in hand, and began to speak. He was followed by a teacher, a mechanic, an alchemist, a woman who had lost her job.

            He sat on the edge of the stage, coat off, shirt sleeves now rolled up, and he listened. He asked questions. Nina and Maes darted back and forth with microphones so every speaker could be heard. When the unemployed woman began to weep, Nina hugged her and began making notes. When one man began to shout angrily, Roy let him speak, listening intensely to the man’s frustrations.

            When it was done, when the all to brief half hour was up, Roy bowed and quietly thanked them, the people of Amestris, slung on his coat and walked out into the cold with his family.

           

            As they headed for the car that waited for them, Roy glanced worriedly at Edward. “Did it make a difference? Do you think they heard me?”

            Ed paused and stooped to pick up something from the rain gutter along the curb. It was a Samuelson campaign flyer. It had been torn in half and discarded.

            “You did to someone,” he told his lover. “Somebody heard you tonight….”

 

….TO BE CONTINUED….

           

 


	22. THAT WHICH DOES NOT DESTROY US

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selim Bradley walks a knife’s edge between madness and innocence—and Ed’s son has a theory that could either save the homunculus…or destroy him. Roy’s speech may turn the election—unless his past in Ishbal is turned against him. Meanwhile, Ed and Roy have a very, very intimate bedside chat about Roy’s promiscuous history….

 

            “Hey! Waitaminute!” Ed was about to shrug out of his shirt when he noticed a small bruise on his lover’s backside. “Where the hell did that come from?”

            Roy glanced over his shoulder, then grimaced. “What?” Innocence, feigned or otherwise, might divert Ed from the small bluish mark that stood out in stark relief against his ivory skin.

            “You’ve got a bruise on your butt.”

            A dark brow lifted a fraction. “You should be more careful.”

            “That’s not an automail bruise, and I sure as hell didn’t see that when we were in the shower this morning.”

            “You pay that much attention to my ass? I’m flattered.” A flash of smirk…yes, that might be enough to distract him…

            Gold eyes narrowed. “She goosed you.”

            “Huh?”

            “That dame Gladys. She grabbed your ass.”

            “Your deductive skills are impressive. You should work with Falman in investigations.” There was no point in denying the evidence. “And I assure you,” Roy sighed, “ I _assure_ you I did _not_ grab back.”

            Edward wasn’t angry. As a matter of fact, there was something downright wicked about the grin he offered the President. “Did she get you hard?”

            “You’re insane!”

A broad hand in the middle of his chest shoved him playfully back against the headboard. “Tell the truth, asshole.”  The grin turned hungry and determined as Edward, clad in nothing but an open dress shirt, tie undone and hanging loosely over his bare chest, climbed his way up Roy’s supine body until his bare knees were locked around Roy’s hips. “C’mon, Roy! You were getting off on all that attention, weren’t you?”  A hand reached down between the older man’s thighs and _squeezed_. “Did you want to fuck her?”

 “It’s called the Gallant Reflex.” All Roy’s saliva had dried up and his face was turning an intriguing shade of crimson. Something headstrong and impatient was poking him in the groin and he squirmed as much as humanly possible with his hips trapped in that vise-like grip. “It was purely a biological reaction. “

“You admit it, She got you hard.” His lover leaned in close and put his mouth to Roy’s ear _. “I’ll get you harder…”_

###

           

 

            Davy Collins was making his final rounds of the Bradley house before turning in for the night. Mrs. Bradley always asked him to look in on Selim and he never minded. The young man was generally so gentle and tractable that he wasn’t much trouble at all…

            …except when he was. Those were very bad nights indeed.

            Nobody wanted to drug Selim but there didn’t seem to be much choice. One of the Central doctors—not one of the military doctors but a civilian—talked about some new treatment called ‘electroconvulsive therapy’. A brief pulse of low electrical current could be administered to induce a mild seizure while the patient was sedated. “It will get rid of these episodes he’s been having,” the doctors assured Mrs. Bradley but she still wouldn’t agree to it. Collins didn’t agree either. As he had explained to the President earlier that day, “I’m sorry, Sir—but don’t you think it’s inhumane?”

            Mustang had agreed. “There have been enough horrible things done to Selim Bradley. Tell Mrs. Bradley that if the doctors pressure her to give Selim any type of therapy she does not approve of to contact me immediately.”

            “There’s something about alchemy that drives the poor fellow half –mad.”

            “Again, that is not surprising. I’m afraid,” Mustang’s tone became crisp and formal, “that I am not presently at liberty to give you any details. And since he had the most recent episode of terrors after a nurse visit I will arrange for military nurses and doctors to oversee his care from this point on. Did you get a good look at the woman who came the night of his last… _event_?”

            “I’m sorry, Sir,”

            “I expect you to be more observant in future.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

           

            In the end it was determined that a mild, herbal sedative was acceptable to all. Even Selim was consulted and agreed that he would not mind taking ‘some soothing syrup to help you sleep’. A mixture of chamomile, valerian root, hops and catmint may not have tasted pleasant, but at least it was non-narcotic and would not have any dangerous side effects. Besides, Collins always had a spoonful of cinnamon honey at the ready to clear the nasty aftertaste away.

            The syrup had done its work. The breathing from Selim’s bedroom was gentle and steady and a night-light glowed softly so he would not become frightened if he awakened during the night. A bell-pull sash was close at hand and he knew to ring it if he needed Collins, not that he ever did now that he was taking the sedative.

            Davy Collins paused outside Mrs. Bradley’s room and called softly, “All well, Ma’am?”

            He could almost hear her smile from the other side of the door. “I’m fine, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”

            “Yes, Ma’am. Sleep well, and ring if you need me.”

 

            He was stacking up a fresh pile of logs on the hearth when he heard the sound of footsteps muffled by the snow, a “thump!” and a “ _goddamnit!”_ that he had heard more than once when a certain younger man had turned his ankle tripping over the boots he has kicked aside in his eagerness to climb into bed and into the man that was waiting for him. He stuck his head out of the front door. “Are you all right?”

            “Define ‘all right’,” called a voice from the shadows. “Last time I was here I got kicked out the front door, bruised my ribs, had a mild concussion—“

            “—Maes, listen---“

            “—AND, to add insult to injury, it’s boring as fuck-all with you gone, and in spite of the aforementioned injuries I’m just idiot enough to come out here in the middle of the night and try to persuade you to _talk_ to me….because…because… _shit!”_ Something collided with the rose trellis. “All right, Collins!” It was somewhere between a whisper and a bellow. It sounded mad as hell and it took all of Sebastian’s training to keep Davy from laughing. “Get your scrawny ass out here and _talk_ to me, you dickhead! You don’t just chuck me out and flush a lifetime of friendship down the crapper!”

            A tall figure stumbled into the blade of light from the open doorway. The figure was hatless, coatless, but wore a scarf that Elycia had knitted for Davy knotted around his throat. The soft wings of pale hair that framed his face were dusted with snow. His lab jacket was torn at the sleeve—presumably from the rose trellis---and the motorcycle goggles shoved back on his head were fogged over—undoubtedly the reason he had collided with the birdbath. He had obviously parked his bike and sidecar up the street so that the engine’s rumbling wouldn’t give him away.

Maes was flushed and panting and scuffed and bleeding a bit from scratches on his cheek and if there had been even the slightest hesitation in Davy’s mind about letting Maes Elric into the house it would have evaporated at the sight of his lover being ever at the ready to make an ass of himself in public to make a point….just like his legendary father.

            And that was as close to romantic as an Elric was likely to get.

           

            “Can I have my scarf back?”

            “Hell no, and don’t ask me again.” Maes snatched it back testily. “After you buggered off to this place and _left_ me…AND then proceeded to kick me out the front door…I should think I deserve _something_ as a payback.” He winced as Davy daubed antiseptic on his scratches. “I know you don’t want me here—“

            “Maes, that’s not it—“

            “—but I figured at this hour I wasn’t likely to upset anyone—and I AM sorry, by the way. How the hell was I supposed to know Selim would react to alchemy like that?”

            “You couldn’t have known, dear. It’s all right.”

            Both young men turned abruptly. Mrs. Bradley stood in the doorway in her dressing gown and slippers, a tea pot in one hand, a plate of cookies in the other. The genuine warmth in the old woman’s smile assured Maes that she was not angry at him. “And I do hope you’ll join us for breakfast.”

            Maes glanced at the gentle, accepting smile of the former First Lady of Amestris, then to the corner of his best friend’s mouth, which was twitching almost imperceptively with barely suppressed laughter. He bit into a sugar cookie and frowned. “I bet you’ve forgotten how I like my morning toast. Very crispy and browned, butter on both sides and—“

            _“Permission to smother our guest with a sofa cushion, Ma’am?”_

###

           

            The voice on the other end of the phone sounded amused. “Well,” there was a cynical chuckle in Samuelson’s ear, “I suppose you could always get your old job back at the network. I hear the cinema critic is out on maternity leave.”

            “Very funny.”

            “You won’t be laughing so hard on election day, Donal. Mustang just knocked you out without laying a glove on you.” There was a deep intake of breath as if Archer was drawing on a cigarette. “You should be listening to your rival network. ABC Radio has an all night chat show, and Mustang couldn’t pay for this kind of publicity.”

            “As I recall,” Samuelson answered coolly, “ you wrote the book on Mustang—you and that over-painted trollop you’ve teamed up with. I understand the book party at the gallery is a black-tie affair. See if you can get her to chisel off a few layers of makeup so she’s presentable.”

            “I’ve got a more than enough material on you, my friend. Your bar tabs could rival the national debt, for starters. “

            “And you’re pure as the driven snow. Don’t make me laugh.”  He sighed heavily. “None of us come this far with clean hands. What do you want?”

            “It’s not what I want, Donal. It’s what you want. Mustang’s head on a platter. You know what you have to do, who to call, and what to say to get them to listen to you.” Another deep, smoky breath. “I’ve got the press coming out tomorrow night to see the pictures from Ishbal. All the suits and the uniforms and the big wigs. When the press sees those pictures in the gallery, there are going to be a lot of old men in Parliament and in the military who are not going to want to get splattered when the shit hits the fan.  There is going to be a backlash and somebody needs to be the scapegoat. As they say,” Archer laughed nastily, “I’ll get you the story. You provide the war. Understood?”

###

            After the debate Nina had headed over to Elycia’s comfortable flat above Il Gattina. It always amused her that when she was little her great grandmother Pinako and old man Faust used these rooms as their trysting place. Granny had been a randy old soul at heart and Nina loved the stories of Pinako’s “Pantheress of Resembool” days.

            “Where’s Maes?” Elycia handed Nina a cup of coffee laced with brandy and topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.

            “Gone to make it up with Davy, I expect.” Nina might find love an annoying distraction but she heartily approved of her brother’s choice in a companion. “He said something about kissing and making up if he had to break Davy’s arm to do it. How Rockbell is that, I ask you? Went off on his bike. Hope he doesn’t wrap it around the lamp post again.”  She glanced at Elycia who was pouring a double shot into her own mug and stirring the brew with such force it was splashing onto her saucer. “You don’t like them together.” Her friend made a noncommittal shrug. “Leesie…might as well let that one pass,” Nina sighed. “My brother—“

            “—could be with anyone…man or woman—“

            “—they’ve been friends almost all Maes’ life. Who knew it would turn out like this?” Nina took the cup and saucer out of Elycia’s hands. “But it has. Time to move on. Don’t end up like Aunt Riza or my mom.”

            Elycia looked over at her companion. “What’s up with Winry?”

            “Uncle Pitt is sleeping at the clinic these days, and I don’t think Uncle Alphonse is going back anytime soon.”

            “Oh, no! Are they—“

            “—cooling things down a bit, “ Nina nodded. “Mom’s been a little overbearing these days. Probably a reaction to Granny passing, but it’s getting on everybody’s nerves. She was all over Maes to move back home and come work for the automail clinic. She’s got a half a dozen village girls on a short list of prospective daughter-in-laws. And she was telling me to hurry up and finish in medicine so I can partner with Uncle Pitt. Yes, she’s got the whole scenario nicely planned out for my brother and me and it’s not on, Leesie. It’s not on. “

            “You’re still planning to finish in medicine, right?”

            Nina looked thoughtful. “I might do—but all night I’ve been thinking…you heard Poppy on the radio?” Elycia nodded. Nina’s fixed her gaze on the flames cracking cheerfully on the hearth. “I watched him up on that stage—I listened to all those people….Leesie, if you’re a doctor, you can heal one person at a time. But think about Poppy…he can do so much good for so many…and it’s _important_ to him. It’s the most important thing in the world, even more than Daddy and me and Maes. We’ve talked about it a lot, how all he ever wanted to do was take care of Ametris and he made out the best career path to follow to accomplish that. Even if he loses the election, it won’t stop him. Before we came along, all he wanted to do was be a good father to the people—to undo the damage, to stop the wars, to educate and improve the economy.”

            Elycia recognized the expression on her best friend’s face. Some time—at some point during the course of this evening, Nina Elric had finally made up her mind over what to do with her tremendous intellect and drive and determination. She patted Nina’s arm. “You know,” she said softly, “you’re going to need people you can depend on to stand by you, To help you make it wherever you’re going. Mom and I will be there for you, okay?”

            The green eyes of Nina Elric were steady and clear. She nodded, smiling a little. “Every Mustang needs a Hughes.”

             “And, “ Elycia touched her cup to Nina’s, “Every Hughes needs a Mustang.”

            _“Mustang-Elric,”_ Nina corrected with a smile.

###

            “You know why my dad doesn’t practice alchemy?”

            A lean hand stretched down to stroke the tousled head in his lap, one cheek resting on the pale, faded bullet scar Collins had gotten saving the son of a perfect stranger on the day that changed his life. “Doesn’t? Or can’t?”

            “Exactly.” Maes nuzzled the scar thoughtfully. “I don’t know all the details, but when Dad and Uncle Alphonse were kids they messed around with alchemy and something went wrong. Dad got hurt—that’s how he lost his leg and arm. Uncle Al got so messed up he had to hide in armor for years. I always guessed Auntie Mai and her people set him right, ‘cause I know she helped Dad get his arm back, although I’ll be damned if I know how. But that was the end of it for the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

            “How old was he?”

            “Sixteen, I think. And you know what else? I think it’s probably all in his head.”

            “In his head? You mean you think it’s psychosomatic?”

            “Sure!” Maes reached over and sipped from the glass of wine they shared. “Alchemists have a sort of..well, they call it a Gateway…it’s inside your mind. You open that Gate in your mind to use alchemy.”

            “Sounds too hard for me.”

            “Well it wasn’t too hard for me or my sister. I’ve been doing it since I was five or six. It’s not like that Gateway could be given up or go away or close forever, is it?  I think Dad just doesn’t want to go there because of how Uncle Al got hurt.” He looked thoughtful. “That’s what made me think of Selim.”

            Collins looked puzzled. “What are you getting at?”

            “Well, he throws those fits because something out of the blue sets him off, right?”

            “More or less.”

            “Right! Then maybe if we find out what it is and Selim faces it and gets _through_ facing it, he’ll get well. That’s better than going through life all drugged up, right? Maybe he’s simple minded because he’s spent his whole life shutting something back. He’s not damaged, is he? He’s not got any sort of retardation or birth injury?” Collins shook his head. “Okay. I know you can’t say anything, but I can. I’ll talk to Mrs. Bradley. I can’t believe she wants Selim to spend his life doped up or in some madhouse. Because,” Maes sat up and smoothed his hair out of his eyes, “I don’t think Selim Bradley is slow, any more than I think my dad can’t do alchemy anymore. Dad won’t even discuss it, but maybe Selim…..”

            His lover looked doubtful. “Maes, you could be wrong. There are some things in life we just can’t get over.”

            “You know what the Milos say?” Maes slapped Collin’s naked thigh for emphasis, “’That which does not destroy us can only make us strong in the end’

###

            Edward Elric could not transmute the brass headboard but the sashes that tied up their respective bath robes would do in a pinch. “Can’t move?” Roy shook his head. “Good. You and I are going to have a little chat about the Ice Cream Blonde. Comfy?”

            “Not exactly,” Roy grunted. “I’m getting a cramp in my leg.” Not surprising, since both ankles were tied to the bedpost behind him, as well as his wrists, which were behind his head.

            “Tough shit.” Ed admired his handiwork. Not that Roy hadn’t dared him to do it and cooperated willingly. “Now then, about Gladys Turlough. Aunt Chris says she’s a one-woman sporting event—The Amestrian Open. Now,’ he rummaged in the night stand and removed a corked bottle that had been imported from a certain dealer in the Ishballan _souks_ —the same man who had sold Roy Mustang a book of erotic desert poetry many years ago. It was labeled ‘Oil of the Moon”. The first time Roy had used it on Ed had been on a wild night before Ed left for Drachma when they had shared a double saddle and ridden together under the stars. They had saved the bottle for special occasions. This was one of them.

            Ed held up the bottle and Roy swallowed hard, nodding, his face flushing as deeply as the cock that twitched impatiently on his belly. “I don’t care if you fuck her. I really don’t give a damn.” He carefully removed the stopper and sniffed. It smelled cool, but felt warm when rubbed on the skin, growing hot if blown upon. “I’m absolutely serious. You want to fuck Gladys Turlough or any woman, for that matter. Be my guest. You wanna know _why_?”

            “I have no idea.”

            “Because they can’t give you _this.”_ An oiled finger slid up to the knuckled and _stroked_. Roy’s eyes rolled back in his head. The finger curled. Just one single finger, and it moved in and out and circled with a purpose. “They don’t know you…they never will. They never did, all that time when you were fucking your way up the chain of command, getting all that information from the lovers of those other officers.”  The finger withdrew and Ed leaned in closer. “You had your fun.  You don’t have anything against women.” The bottle tipped again into the palm of Edward’s hand. “You like fucking them. You enjoyed it back in those days, didn’t you?”

            “Y..yesssss”

            “Of course you did. It felt good. However,” the voice became a seductive whisper as Edward climbed up his lover’s body, “there’s a difference between what feels… _good_ …and satisfying…and then there’s what can…drive…you…out..of…your…goddamn… _mind. You_ taught me that. You taught me that first time in the hospital… _remember?”_

He _pushed_. It _burned_. Roy hissed. Ed was rubbing against him from the outside, from just inside, withdrawing… _teasing_.  “Of course,” he continued, “there are all kinds of ways to make it work. The way I make it work when you’re half a world away from me. I have all those wonderful little… _toys_ —“

            “ _AGHHH!!”_

 _“_ —to play with.  Gladys is pretty smart. There’s no telling what she did to Havoc. I’m sure she’s got one of those toys for her girlfriends. Maybe she can read you. Maybe she would rub up against you and tell you what she could do to make it unforgettable…” He pushed again, barely breaching, circling, spreading the heat and slickness. “There’s no telling what she’s got to play with . And it might get you off for an afternoon or two.” The burning gold eyes became enormous.

            _“I can get you off for a lifetime. And I will.”_

His wrists were instantly freed, hands moving up to caress, to pull that driving body down into Roy’s embrace. Pale thighs strained and shook as Edward spread them wider, leaning back, giving Roy an unobstructed view of everything he ever wanted and no woman could ever give him. “Look at me…look at me going into you.” Ed was at the edge of sanity. He was the taker being taken, helpless because the man under him owned him in every way that mattered. Ed couldn’t take his eyes off his own cock, darkly flushed and swollen to bursting,  gliding slickly in and out of his lover. “That woman could do this to you if you wanted—but you don’t, do you?”

            _“Never.”_

            “Right…because,, _ahh…ohhhgodddd…SHIT!!!…b-because…if she did it…you couldn’t feel her heartbeat inside you…like I feel it when you f…fu..fuckme…so deep….”_

“…like I feel you right _now…”_

His hair stuck to his shoulders and chest. He was panting furiously, his balls growing tight. His voice was a hoarse whisper now. “I’ve been tempted…oh _fuck_ have I been tempted when I’m gone…when I’ve gotta fuck… _just gotta fuck_ …anyone…anything…feel like I’m gonna die I’m so alone…and I don’t…I _caaaa…aan’t…can’t…_ I get the book…I look at you…nothin’ comes close… _”_

 _“…better than any goddamn woman…better than Hughes…”_ Roy growled at him, yanking him close and biting down hard on a scarred shoulder.. “Oh, _fuck_ yes…”

            Edward abruptly pulled back, out and his hand yanked at the sashes, freeing Roy’s ankles. Crawling up frantically, he spread himself with both hands and sank down hard and deep, a low groan slipping out of him as Roy slammed up to meet him.

            Lips that were gnawed half bloody pressed against Roy’s ear. _“They don’t love me.”_

It was too damn much to bear. The exquisite torment of being filled to the bursting, the lingering heat of the oil, the sudden bliss of Edward straddling his hips, riding him with his wet hair whipping across his face and down his back, a wet cock straining against his belly. Roy caught Edward in his hands and their fingers laced together as Edward rocked down hard and _squeezed,_ as if he wanted to take the whole of Roy Mustang, body and soul, inside himself and to _keep him there_ , deep, up under his heart, where nobody could ever separate them again.

            They were rooted together. Edward’s eyes had gone from slits of gold to wide open and strangely wet. The look he gave his lover told Roy everything he needed to know about being _naked_ with another person—in the truest sense of the word.

            _“I love you.”_

            He said it once. He said it twice. He said it, his eyes meeting Roy’s. He whispered it. He moaned it as he filled his lover’s clenched fist, pearly droplets spattering an ivory chest, He panted it as his hips were bruised by scarred hands that drove him down and down again and he felt that hot gush pulsing inside him. He heard his own admission gasped in his own ears, against his own skin, into his own open mouth as their tongues collided.

 

            Side by side, they rested, fingers lightly entwined, laughing a little as they caught their breaths.

            “One more thing.”

            “Huh?”

            “If she touches your dick, she’s _dead.”_

 

…TO BE CONTINUED……

 


	23. "THE MATTER OF PRIDE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For nearly two decades the truth about Pride and Selim Bradley had been shrouded in mystery, and both Fuhrer Grumman and President Mustang swore to protect Amestris from Pride, even if it cost Selim his life. Now that Selim is having nightmares about The Father, Roy decides it is time to make a final decision about Selim’s fate….

There were worse ways to wake up in the morning than the teasing scratch of morning stubble along one’s belly and thighs, accompanied by the tickle of warm breath and slick delights of Roy Mustang’s tongue….worse, yes.

 None _better._

            “So….that fucking book is coming out this morning. Planning to set fire to any bookshops before breakfast?” Ed asked as they showered and shaved at their twin bathroom sinks.

            “Actually,” Roy slapped on a bit of exotic cologne and admired himself after making sure his teeth were properly flossed, “We have a fitting for our wedding suits, and we need to drag Maes out of whatever bed he’s occupying and bring him along. I wonder if the tailor can possibly bear three such outstanding specimens of masculine charisma.” He glanced at Ed. “Well, two, perhaps.”

            _THHHAAAWACCCKKK!!_ A wet towel, aimed with all deliberate malice, popped Mustang on the rump, leaving a red mark that complimented the bruise Gladys Turlough had left on his opposite nether cheek.

            “Like it? Now you’ve got a matched set,” Ed crowed victoriously. “And,” he threatened, snapping the wet towel for emphasis, “if she kisses it better—“

            “—she’s have to shove you out of the way.”

            “Only if I’m in the midst of _shoving…_ ” Ed’s hand slid over the reddened mark with a lingering caress.

            “Shove me and you’re likely to get _shoved_ back. _Repeatedly_. On the presidential desktop.”

            “How about the bathroom counter?”          

            “How about _now?”_

_“AH-hemmm hemmmmmm mmmm?”_

Sebastian. Damn. “If nobody’s bombing Central,” Roy bellowed, grabbing at his lover’s hips, “it can wait.”

            “It’s _Collins_ , Your Excellency,” the butler informed him. “Master Maes is in need of assistance at the Bradley house. Immediate assistance, from you, Professor Elric or Master Alphonse, specifically.” There was a pause. “Confidentially, _Sir_ …I’d say it was a… _matter of Pride.”_

###

            His lab coat was neatly folded, the tear from the rose trellis neatly mended. Maes’ boots were polished, trousers hung up and his shirt had been touched up with an iron. “Damn perfectionist,” the young man muttered, half irritated by his best friend’s compulsive neatness and half aroused and delighted to be back in Davy’s bed again.

The clock in the hall downstairs softly chimed six, and since the butler’s quarters were on the first level he could hear the muffled sounds of the small band of servants receiving orders from Davy—correction: at this hour he was now _Collins_ , butler and majordomo for the Bradley estate. There were more servants than there were Bradleys, but that was hardly the point. Mrs. Bradley had been trying to manage on her own for far too long. Far as Maes could tell, Davy’s skilled management had taken a great deal of stress off Mrs. Bradley’s mind and according to Uncle Roy she seemed far less absent-minded than she had been months ago. “It’s all well that he’s doing for her and Selim,” he muttered to the wallpaper. “That’s good…but I want him home. That’s what comes of being Sebastian’s fair haired boy, I guess.”

            A fresh toothbrush, a safety razor with a fresh blade and clean towels were laid out for him in the small private bathroom. No sense coming to breakfast all stubbly with butler on his breath, Maes reasoned, and hastened to make himself presentable.

            There was nothing to tie his hair up with but he was at least combed out, although it took some effort to manage the snarls he inevitably got in his hair from thrashing his head on the pillows if his lover chose to climb up for a hard ride. Last night had been remarkable indeed and Maes had the tangles in his hair to prove it.

            He was halfway up the hall to the dining room when the sound of Selim’s voice made him hesitate. _What if…?_ The last thing he wanted to do was send Selim Bradley off the deep end into another fit. Mrs. Bradley had invited in to breakfast, yes…surely she understood the risks, didn’t she? Maybe he should—

            _“Maes? Dear, is that you?”_

            Damn, too late. Drawing a deep breath, the tall young man entered the dining room. Davy---no, _Collins_!—Collins was pouring coffee for Mrs. Bradley and Selim was digging in to a bowl of oatmeal with what smelled like baked cinnamon apples, just like Collins had made back home at Rose Hill. “G..good morning, Ma’am!” he boomed out in a voice that sounded too loud to him and way too cheerful. “Good morning, Selim! It’s good to see you!”

            The oatmeal bowl crashed to the floor. _“FAAAAAATHERRRRRR!! NO! NOOOO! FAAAAAAAAATHEERRRRRRR!!!!”_

Mrs. Bradley went white. Collins bent immediately to steady her.

            Maes, on the other hand marched straight up to Selim Bradley. He was shocked. And he was mad as hell. What the fuck was going on with Selim? Maes had never laid a hand on him, never hurt him and the moment the older man had seen Maes Elric he had gone absolutely _bugfuck._

            _Hysterics,_ Maes recognized. _He’s hysterical._  Selim had leapt up from his chair, cringing, backing up against the fireplace, eyes wide and wild. It was as if whatever intelligence the older man possessed had been switched off.  “ _NOOOOOOOO!!”_

            Maes did not back away. He was the son of Edward Elric and the great grandson of Pinako Rockbell. He had younger step-brothers and sisters back in Resembool that occasionally attempted to manipulate their mother by throwing tantrums.  When Sara was little she would literally scream until she threw up and wet herself. Maes once tried to coddle her but Pinako would have none of that. “Don’t encourage it, or she’ll keep on doing it.” Seeing Pinako’s point, Maes instead cheerfully asked Sara if she knew how to make gingerbread pancakes. “I’ve never had gingerbread pancakes,” he told the little girl wistfully. “I would _really_ love a nice, fluffy stack of gingerbread pancakes. Do you think,” his arm slid around her shaking shoulders, “you could figure out how to make me some?” It had worked. Sara was completely distracted from her screaming fit and every other time she’d gotten herself worked up her big brother had artfully distracted her.

            As Maes moved closer, he couldn’t be certain if Selim was going to faint or try to attack him. The fire poker was near to hand, and if he had to Maes was prepared to use alchemy to protect himself. Nina had cast Maes’ array into a heavy silver signet ring that he often wore on his watch chain, since jewelry could be a hazard in his laboratory. Maes had slipped it on before coming down for breakfast just in case of any possible emergency.

            Selim began to shriek, and there was the sudden, rank smell as if he’d fouled himself in terror. _Sheesh, am I THAT scary? And who the hell is ‘Father’? Is he calling for the old Fuhrer?_

            “ _Selim._ Selim?” They were eye to eye now. “Hey, buddy… _snap out of it.”_

            Nobody moved. Maes held the older man’s gaze and kept his voice cheerful and calm. “Seriously, man….everything’s fine. Snap out of it.”

            Selim was hyperventilating and the front of his trousers darkened as he lost control of his bladder. “ _Fatherfatherfatherfather…!”_  he babbled. He swayed as if he was about to fall.

            Maes slapped him.

            It wasn’t enough to hurt, just enough to shock. Then he caught Selim by both shoulders and shook him very gently. “Selim… _Selim._ Look…I don’t know what or who you’re scared of, but there’s no ‘Father’ here. It’s me, and your mom and Collins. Nobody here would ever hurt you. You’re making yourself sick. Pull yourself together.”

            There was a tiny, frightened sound from Mrs. Bradley. Maes heard his lover’s voice, calm and confident: _“Trust him, Ma’am_. _Trust Maes.”_   She did not move her eyes away from Selim but she reached up and patted his arm with trembling hands. “ _Yes.”_

            _“Selim.”_ The large hands, scarred from dozens of lab accidents, were now massaging Selim’s shoulders. “I’m not ‘Father’. I’m your friend. You know what friends are? Friends are people who listen when you’re scared. You talk it out and they help you and the bad feelings go away. Now,” he was smiling now, “I bet you didn’t know that I make THE most a _mazing_ gingerbread pancakes in the whole wide world, did you?” Selim didn’t answer. “Well, I do! You can ask Nina. You can ask Elycia. Even Collins says they’re the best.  And since you’re outta oatmeal, buddy, what say Mom and I go mix up some batter while Collins gets you cleaned up and I’ll teach you how to flip pancakes. Sound like a good deal? We’ll make the world’s biggest stack of gingerbread pancakes and all of us will sit down and have a feast—and then Collins will make some hot chocolate and then we’re gonna talk about what’s scaring you--- _and we’re gonna make it all right._ Does that sound like a plan to you, buddy?”

            It was not until the upstairs bathroom door closed that Maes slumped against the mantle, shaking violently. “Oh fuck,” he whispered. “Oh, fuck….oh _fuck_ ….” Remembering where he was, he offered an apology to Mrs. Bradley. “I’m just…I’ve never…”

            She kissed his cheek. “You were wonderful and brave, my dear boy!”

            “Yeah, whatever.” His eyes were damp and he grabbed Mrs. Bradley’s coffee mug and took a deep swallow. “Do you know how to make gingerbread pancakes? ‘Cause fuck me if I have a clue.”

            She laid her hand on his cheek. “No, Maes…but I _do_ know what the Father was…and so do Edward and Alphonse and Roy Mustang.”

###

            “I’d like to transmute that trollop into a _toilet seat!”_

            “Nina!”

            “I mean it.” Nina Elric was staring through the window of the bookshop with eyes that were so cold and calculating that Elycia was feeling more than a little alarmed.

            “Think of your new career,” Elycia warned. “You want to serve the public and run for a seat in Parliament? I don’t think you can do that if you’ve got a criminal record. And you’ll get one for sure if you go in there.”

            “I want to get my hands on that book---and I want to hear what that…that… _thing_ …has to say about my Poppy and your dad and…and…”

            “—annnnnd…let’s go get some coffee and some cinnamon rolls. They’re hot out of the oven right now.” Elycia tugged at her friend’s arm but Nina wouldn’t budge. “Nina…honey…if I thought you could go in there and stay calm…but you’re not yourself.”

            Nina spun on her heels and glared up at Elycia. “She went after Uncle Maes too. How can _you_ be so calm?”

            “Because…if I thought for one minute that you smacking her with a handbag full of hardcover laboratory manuals would make a difference for the better, I’d whack her myself. But,” she sighed, “it won’t…and I really don’t think Daddy or Uncle Roy would want us to fall to that level.”

            _“You’re right.”_

            The young women turned around. Riza Hawkeye was standing behind them. So was Alphonse Elric. “I was expecting to find you and your brother here,” Al told them, “and the Colonel and I thought it would be good to—“

            “---keep us from turning Kelley Winchell into a toilet seat?” Nina suggested with sweet malice.

            “---keep you from doing anything that would make matters worse.” Alphonse was kind but firm. “So, we are going in that bookstore—since you’re obviously hell bent on it and I can’t order a grown woman around. You are going in and Colonel Hawkeye and I will be right at your side and you will show your usual grace and maturity and I am sure _you will make me proud of you._ “

            Daddy might yell and curse and Poppy might indulge…but when it came to laying down the law there was no getting around her Uncle Alphonse. Nina nodded. “Yes, sir.”

            “Good. And when you’re satisfied, we will get the hell out of here and after a big breakfast the Colonel and I will take you ladies out to the dressmakers. We need to find something perfect for you to wear to the wedding. The gentlemen are being fitted this morning too. I figured we might all go out to lunch this afternoon and then---“

            He was talking to empty air. The ladies had already left him behind.

           

            “So…um….how did you two start to write together?” A woman asked from the front row.

            Kelley Winchell _preened_. “Well! My _former_ publisher—and my lawyers have asked me not to mention them by name…but _we_ all know who I’m taking about, riiiiiight?” She looked around at her audience. “Anyway, they were just _dragging_ their feet getting _Fire and Vice_ to press…and they had the _nerve_ to tell me that there was ‘something wrong’ with the print rollers that would put the ink on the pages. Now, _honestly_! Doesn’t that make you wonder? And I said to myself ‘hmmmmmm? Maybe they deliberately---“ there was a _harummmph!_ from the sidelines and a man in a dark suit shook his head imperceptively. “Wellll…anyway…they _told_ me they couldn’t print _Fire and Vice_ …but they managed to print out that silly children’s book, didn’t they?” She tittered, her tight-jawed smile barely concealing her anger over _Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf._  The man in the dark suit threw Winchell another cautioning look. “Soooo….since _Fire and Vice_ obviously wasn’t coming out, Mr. Archer and I decided to collaborate. He had the pictures from the war. I had the story. The rest is history…or certainly _will_ be, once you’ve bought it and read it and seen for yourself what _awful_ things were done during the Ishballan war!”

            Between one sentence and another, Nina Elric’s blood drained out of her face and she let out a soft hiss of breath as if she’d been punched in the belly by an unseen hand.

            _Something wrong with the print rollers…makes you wonder…deliberate?…Fire and Vice wasn’t coming out…something wrong with the print rollers…deliberate…_

            “---hard to look at, maybe. But…it’s _history,_ isn’t it? And it’s so _relevant_ to what’s been going on here in Central during the current President’s rule---“

            _Deliberate…something wrong…deliberate…._

“—oh, god…that’s terrible!”

            “—I can’t…don’t look…”

            “—the _baby_! He burned a _baby---“_

Photographic slides projected by a Magic Lantern. A city in flames. Row upon row of soldiers. The corpse of a burned child beside the charred ruins of its dead mother.

            People were rumbling…crying…voices becoming an angry buzz in her ears…

            Above the furor was the hateful voice of Kelley Winchell. “Never forget,” she intoned sanctimoniously. “ _We must never, ever forget---“_

           

            She was out in the cool air, Her knees were not going to hold her up much longer. Riza Hawkeye had guessed that, seeing how pale Nina had become, and helped her outside as the customers inside sobbed and whispered and argued and lined up to have their books signed by Kelley Winchell, who never noticed the young woman’s anguish.

            “Nina?” Alphonse looked alarmed. “Are you all right?”

            _“It’s my fault.”_

            Elycia blotted her friend’s damp face with her handkerchief. “Honey, it’s not…it’s not. You’re just upset. You couldn’t help it---“

            They didn’t understand. “It’s my fault,” she confessed. “I told Maes to damage the print rollers with alchemy. It was my idea. I put him up to this. If I had just kept my mouth shut---“ she gestured towards the mob in the bookstore, the women wiping tears from their faces, the angry men. “If I had just stayed out of it…that book... _those pictures_ would never have seen the light of day. _It’s all my fault!”_

###

            Selim Bradley had a big stack of gingerbread pancakes. He had a walk with his mother and Collins. He came home for a nap before lunch.

            As he slept, Edward Elric told his son the truth about Truth—and a good many other things. Mrs. Bradley sat with them, nodding in agreement. Finally she pulled out a photograph of a very, very tiny creature, swaddled in the middle of a jacket with the Flamel cross on the back.

            Maes excused himself, He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a large shot of brandy without asking his hostess’ permission. He downed it in a single gulp.  He sat down beside his father and it took him nearly five minutes to find the right words for the moment.

            “So…it’s all our fault. That’s right, isn’t it, Dad? Grandpa Hohenheim…he let that… _thing_ …out of the flask. It was made from his blood--- _our_ blood. It killed everybody and looked like Grandpa and…. _HE_ made Selim.”  He drew a slow breath. “That’s why he’s messed up, right?”

            Ed nodded. “Far as I can guess, the Father put the Philosopher’s Stone into the blood of a pregnant woman…and made…Pride.”

            “And when you fought him—“

            ‘—he became…what he had been,” Mrs. Bradley concurred.

            “A viable fetus,” Ed sighed heavily. “What was I to do, son? I wasn’t going to kill him! It wasn’t his fault. After he lost his power he was just….”

            “He was just Selim,” Mrs. Bradley finished. She smiled. “And Selim needed to be loved. I was glad to take him back, glad to call him my son.”

###

            “Tell him the truth.”  Roy’s voice on the other end of the line was strangely calm. “In as much as you think he can understand it. Make certain he doesn’t get the impression that it was his fault.”

            Ed whistled. “ _Damn_. Are you sure about this?”

            There was a weary sigh from his lover. “We’re finally at the tipping point, Ed. It’s gone too far. He’s got vague memories and fears about The Father. He’s more at risk than ever. I don’t want to use an Executive Order but I _will_ if he becomes a danger to others. And that is pretty much up to you, our son and Mrs. Bradley.”

            Ed sighed. “Shit, I was afraid you were going to say that-‘cause Mrs. Bradley said the same damn thing too. I just…hell, I don’t know how…”

            Maes tapped him on the shoulder. “Dad? I think I’ve got an idea…”

###

            “All right, Selim,” Maes began carefully. “You get really scared sometimes. We found out why and Dad and I are going to tell you a little story.”  The younger Elric held up a pair of paper masks he’d transmuted from old newspapers. One was the face of a smiling boy with dark hair and eyes like Selim Bradley. One was the face of a frowning bear that looked suspiciously like a very pissed off Buckety-Buckety.

            Ed cleared his throat nervously and glanced at Mrs. Bradley. She nodded. He began…

            “ _Once upon a time, there was a very, very good little boy.”_  On cue, Maes put on the little boy mask. “ _He was a good kid. A very good kid. And in the same village there was a very bad man named The Father. The Father was just no good. He wanted to make everybody do what he wanted and he didn’t care if they were happy, or if he was right or wrong. The Father was very, very bad and he wanted to be a bully. And this is how he did it.”_

Maes, in the mask, got up and began to stroll around the room, pretending to play with a ball. Ed got up and confronted him. _“The Father said, “Little boy, go into the village and tell the people to do everything I want them to.”_

Maes shook his head. “I won’t. Mommy wouldn’t like it and it would make people sad.”

            “ _And the Father said, ’I don’t care. You will tell everybody to do as I say or I will turn you into a big, growwwwwwly monster and they will be so scared of your biiiiig growwwlllll that they will do anything you say.’”_

“No” said Maes in the Selim mask. “I’m a good boy. I will never hurt anyone.”

            _‘And the bad, bad Father-Man gave the good little boy a magic red stone. When the good boy touched the stone, it changed him on the outside so he looked just like this…”_

Maes pulled the bear mask over the little boy mask. “You see, Selim,” Maes told him, “underneath the bear face the little boy was still there, just as good as he ever was. Do you see that?”

            Facinated, Selim Bradley nodded.  “Okay,” Ed grinned. “Let me tell you what happened next…”

            “ _For a very, very long time, the scary, growwwwwwllly monster would tip-toe around the village and jump out and scare people. And when he did he’d go—“_

 _“RARRRHHHHHHHRHHHHH!”_ bellowed Maes.

 Ed feigned terror. “A monster! A Monster! Don’t eat me! Ooohhh, you’re scaring me!!”

“Will you do what the Father tells you?” Maes rumbled.

“Oh! Oh yes! “ Ed whined. “I’ll do whatever Father tells me.”

“ _And deep, deep inside, the little boy had been playing like he was a monster for so long he completely forgot that he was a good little boy. But one day a boy came to the village. He was an alchemist and when he looked at the biiiiig growling monster he guessed that there was a very good little boy hiding under the monster mask. He decided to set the little boy free. So he told the monster ‘stop being a meanie!’ and he chased the monster all over the village…”_

It was the performance of a lifetime. Ed chased Maes all around the room like a comical version of hide and seek and Selim was laughing now. Finally Ed snuck up behind Maes and tapped him on the shoulder. “GOTCHA!” Ed whooped and pulled off the bear mask, showing Maes with the little boy mask once again.”

“Hey! Well what do you know? I’m _not_ a monster!” Maes shouted triumphantly. “I’m a good boy again!”

“ _And the good little boy and the boy alchemist chased the Father around and around and around and you know what? The Father ran so fast that he turned to dust in front of the people of the village. The alchemist and the people in the village smashed that red stone and when they did that the bad Father was no more.”_ Ed took Maes by the hand and led him to Mrs. Bradley. “ _And the sweet Good Mother saw the good little boy and she said, ‘I love you and I will always love you and take care of you all the days of your life’._ And,” he smiled at Selim, “that is the true story of how you came to be with your mom. That bad, bad Father-Man made you into a growwwwwwwwly monster—and the good alchemist help you get free. Now you’re just a good person, Selim. And,” he touched Selim’s forehead, “this little mark, right here, is where the monster mask was stuck on. That mask is _broken,_ kid. You will _never_ turn into a monster again—and nobody will EVER be able to trick you or talk you into being scary…. _right?”_

“That’s why you get so scared, Selim,” Mrs. Bradley added. “You didn’t remember this story and you didn’t understand…but you do now, don’t you, son?”

Selim thought long and hard. Everybody was smiling at him. He wasn’t bad. He _wasn’t._ “I _think_ so,” he answered slowly.

“You’ll never hurt anybody and nobody will ever hurt you,” Maes said, patting the older boy on the shoulder. “In fact, you’ll get strong and well and chase monsters away, _won’t you?_ If you will…I promise I’ll get Collins to make you gingerbread pancakes every day. Okay?”

“I promise!”

“The monsters will never come back?”

“I promise!”

Maes hugged Selim. Mrs. Bradley hugged him. Ed ruffled his hair and Collins laid his hand on his heart and promised to make gingerbread pancakes to keep the monsters away. “Blueberry will work too…and so will eating your vegetables,” he added with a smile.

###

Twenty minutes later, Ed held the phone in a sweaty, shaking hand as he dialed Roy. “Damn,” he told his lover, “Our kid is fucking _awesome_. May have just saved the goddamn world and the life of Selim Bradley with a fairy tale and a plate of goddamn pancakes…”

 

 

…..TO BE CONTINUED…

 


	24. THE COFFEE ALWAYS SUCKS AFTER 6:45 A.M.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the pre-dawn hours when the lost, desperate, hung over and sleepless denizens of Central sneak around in the back alleys and lurk in the coffee shops, Ed path collides with three very important women, all of which are about to drastically change is life—or rearrange his face!

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 24 “THE COFFEE ALWAYS SUCKS AFTER 6:45 A.M.”

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

            At five-fifteen in the morning, the steam rising up from the manhole covers in the back alleys of Central City makes the pre-dawn world hazy and soft edged. It is a good time of day not to be noticed if you hunch your shoulders, fan up the collar of your overcoat and don’t hold anyone else’s gaze for more than a few seconds..

            _Taking the pulse of the city_. That was what Alphonse called it. Havoc had always referred to it as _doing a recce._ If you asked Ed what the hell he was doing out in the predawn chill, he’d have told you he was _finding shit out_ —blunt, but no less accurate.

 

            Roy knew his lover was ‘out and about’, as the President called it.  The day before had been harrowing, what with the issue of Selim Bradley and the release of Kelly Winchell’s book on the Ishballan Massacre and the exhibit of Donal Samuelson’s battlefield photos. The First Family had turned off the radio, laid the evening papers aside and spent the evening at home together, having a quiet supper and then a lively game of Screw Your Neighbor, a card game the Elric brothers had learned from Havoc when they were in their teens. It involved cheating, lying, a great deal of noise and playful squabbling and the leveling of dire penalties, since it was always played for forfeits. After a couple of glasses of wine even Gracia got into the spirit, and after winning the evening’s first round Roy ended up with Krimson Kiss polish on his toenails, even though he offered her all the cash in his pockets to get out of his forfeit. Davy Collins had been given the evening off after the nerve-wracking day at the Bradley estate, and Edward did not miss the way Elycia’s eyes lingered on the young butler’s face, darting away swiftly whenever Maes threw his arm around his lover’s shoulder.

_Damn it,_ Ed thought, _I am not gonna stick my nose in the kid’s business. Got enough on my plate as it is._

            After a night of much grumbling and little sleep, Roy had suggested Ed hit the street and walk out his irritation. “Not pissed at _you_ ,” Ed mumbled in protest.

            “Naturally,” Roy agreed. “I am the soul of amiability this morning—“

            “—says the man with the flaming red toenails—“

            “—and besides, doesn’t Maes have to get Collins back to the Bradley estate before breakfast?” Ed hesitated, but then heard the voices of the young men down the hall.

            “Yeah. Okay. What _ever_. Need anything while I’m out?”

            “I’m good,” Roy’s voice dropped an octave into low purr. ” _Perfect_ , actually.”

            “Fuck _you_.”

            “I’ll have Sheska check my schedule. I believe I’m free around 2pm before the meeting with the finance committee. We’ll have to make it fast, but with you on top that shouldn’t be a problem.”

            Ed contemplated the trajectory of a thrown pillow from where he was standing and was disappointed. He _might_ smack Roy upside the head but not without risking the bedside lamp. “Remind me,” he grumbled, “ _why_ the hell I’m marrying and asshole like you?”

            “Ah…” Roy scratched at a sleep-stubbled cheek. “Good insurance benefits and a tolerance of you farting in your sleep?”

 

            The _last_ thing Ed expected to see in the alley at 5:15 am was his daughter.

 

            Like her stepfather, she had always been obsessively neat about her person. Ed hadn’t seen a crescent of dirt under his daughter’s nails since she stopped making mud pies. She didn’t mind getting grubby when working in the stable or the garden or the lab, but as soon as she was done she tidied herself up, every dark hair smoothed neatly in place. The fact that she was caught in the back alleys of Central before dawn in greasy coveralls and her hair pinned up and shoved under a floppy workman’s cap made him instantly certain that she was Up To No Good.

            Alphonse rounded the corner to join her. This removed any doubt. The kid was up to something. “What the hell are you two doing out here?” Ed barked, grabbing Nina by the shoulders.

            Alphonse and Nina glanced at each other. Nina looked doubtful. Alphonse looked confident and reassuring in spite of the black smears on his face and the disconcerting brown wig that didn’t fit him particularly well. “Ed!” Alphonse’s tone was entirely too cheerful for 5:15 in the morning in an area of town more suited to purse-snatchings and muggings than family reunions. “You’re up early! Want to go down to Il Gattina with us? There’s a two for one breakfast special this morning, and they’ve got banana pancakes back on the menu---“

            “Pancakes my ass!”” Ed’s arms began to windmill in frustration. “You two trying to get robbed or something? Damn it, what are you up to??”

            “Daddy, we’re _alchemists_. _Elric alchemists_. It’s not like we can’t defend ourselves—“

            “—and you wouldn’t HAVE to worry about defending yourselves if you weren’t sneaking around in some back alley. I wanna know what the fuck you’re up to and I wanna know now. You’re not too big to spank—“

            “I believe _I_ am.” The voice behind him was low, cool and instantly recognizable.

            Instinctively, Ed raised his arms over his head. It was a common reaction, even among people who had known Riza Hawkeye most of their lives. “ _Colonel?”_

            There was an exasperated sigh. “You can put your arms down, Edward. Alphonse and Nina,” she clarified, “were assisting me.”

            “Oh yeah? Doing what?”

            “I needed the assistance of trained alchemists. A matter of presidential…” she broke off and seemed to mumble slightly before clearing her throat. “…. _security_. They were in no danger. The mission is completed. I have the information I need and I appreciate their assistance. That is why I offered to take them to breakfast.”

            Ed stared frankly at his daughter’s grubby condition. “Like _that?_ ” he snorted.

            “We were planning to wash up at Elycia’s flat.”

 That was logical, Ed conceded. Nina had the key and it was right upstairs above Il Gattina. His eyes narrowed. “Makes sense. But if I hear anything from anybody that you got into any trouble, kiddo, I’ll tell your mother—AND Nana Izumi—and they’ll---“

“Oh, _Daddy!”_ Nina rolled her eyes in a manner so out of character—and so like her mother—that Ed instantly decided he would be better off never knowing what the kid had gotten herself into, especially if she needed Alphonse _and_ Colonel Hawkeye to get her out of it.

“Okay. I won’t ask. You’re grown up. Just don’t ask me to make bail for you.” The young woman pressed a swift kiss on her father’s cheek. Hawkeye nodded. Al waved and grinned, and the trio disappeared down a side alley that would lead them to the delivery entrance to Elycia’s bakery.  Ed jammed his chilly hands into his coat pockets, shaking his head. _“Damn kids….”_

Cockburn’s C-Town Grill had a nightmarish rooster painted on its plate glass windows and advertised “ _electrically cooked waffles to order”._ The grill was run by d a surly old war veteran called  Big Cock who was famous for feeding the down and outers and kept a watch chain studded with the back molars he’d punched out of drunks who tried to make trouble.  He was on Chris Mustang’s short list of go-to guys if shit was about to go down in the capital. The waffles were crisp, the sausage was fresh and as long as you got there before 6:45 am the coffee didn’t taste like ass. Big Cock Cockburn’s leftovers kept hungry street kids like Davy Collins alive for the past thirty years, each greasy bag of biscuits or sausage shoved into grateful hands with a hearty, “go’wan—get the hell out of here! What—you think this is—a charity kitchen er sumpin??”

 

Sniffing hot donuts on the breeze, Ed gave the squeaky front door a shove with one shoulder and made his way across the wet, greasy floor to a counter stool. The joint was packed with soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, plowing into great plates of fried country ham and scrambled eggs. Ed snagged a menu and signaled for black coffee “in a _clean_ cup!” he specified.  Big Cock scowled at him and rumbled something to the waitress about ‘getting a booster seat for Short Stack’ which Ed thankfully chose to ignore. “And get me  a couple donuts to go with it,” Ed added.

_“Here.”_ To Ed’s surprise, a coffee-stained saucer appeared at his elbow with two glazed donuts. “I can’t eat more than four when I’m mad.”

Ed swiveled around and was startled to find himself staring into the face of… _Riza Hawkeye???_

Couldn’t be. He’d just seen her head off with Al and Nina, and closer inspection proved he was right.  The eyes were blue, not brown, and makeup had been troweled on, and  the baby pick lipstick was a shade Hawkeye wouldn’t have worn even under direct presidential order. “ _Gladys Turlough??”_

She wiggled her fingers at him. “Yoo-hoo.” She wasn’t smiling. Her eye make up, come to notice it, was slightly smeared.

“Kinda early for you to be out, huh? What are you doing in a dive like this?” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she’d gone back to her ‘old profession’, as Aunt Chris insisted but it was too early in the day to get slapped off a diner stool.

She took a dainty bite of a cake donut, delicately licking the drifts of powdered sugar off her fingers. “We were doin’ a night shoot. I got in a fight with that asswipe director and told him to shove it. I walked out—an’ since I’m the star, they can’t shoot without me.” She nodded in the direction of the soldiers that filled the joint and at second glance Ed recognized that they weren’t enlisted men—they were actors in costume. “I cam in here for coffee and a half-dozen donuts.”

“Half a dozen…?” Damn. She _was_ mad. “So…? What the problem?”

She jammed her hand into a pink leather satchel on the stool beside her, yanked out a script and shoved it under Ed’s nose. A polished nail pointed, indicating where he should begin reading.

By the time he finished, his coffee had gone cold.  “That’s _total_ bullshit!”   
            “Right.”  She took a swallow of coffee, blotted her lips and began to touch up her lipstick. “Love duet for Mustang and Hawkeye. It ain’t right. “

“That wasn’t in the stage version.”

“It wasn’t in _real life_. Lookit, I know this is just a musical but this…this would make Colonel Hawkeye look really stupid. I told him I wouldn’t do it.”

Coming from the woman who had broken up Hawkeye and Havoc, this was a surprise. “That’s important to you?”

“Yeah. “Cause she might have been sweet on him, but we all know he was sweet on Mister Hughes---and Jean was sweet on her. I don’t like her,” she shrugged, “ but I’m still not gonna do this.”

“Whose bright idea was this?” Ed wanted to know.

“Give ya two guesses. Mister Sherman ‘let’s sing penis jokes at the President’s birthday’ Lehrer. He’s writing new songs for the _Fullmetal Alchemist_ movie.  Now,” she put away her lipstick and began to check the effect in her compact mirror, “I know it’s Open Season on Roy Mustang right now because of that book that just came out, but I ain’t playin’. The director said we couldn’t just cut a musical number from the movie. I said I know, dipshit, and I told him I wrote somethin’ nice that we could use. A song about Mister Hughes and Roy.”

“ _You_ wrote a song??”

“Well,” she dimpled, “Me and Alphonse. He’s got a way with words. What was it one of the girls at the bakery called him?? A cunning linguist??”

Ed turned several interesting shades of crimson as he choked on a sugared cruller. Gladys patted him on the back until he caught his breath back. “You wanna see what I got---the _song_ , I mean?”

For politeness’ sake, Ed began to scan quickly over the typewritten page. As the words began to sink in, he stopped and began at the beginning:

            _We wanted to be soldiers—we were barely more than kids_

_We believed in Fuhrer Bradley—we believed in what we did_

_Then that cursed war in Ishbal opened up our dreaming eyes_

_In that senseless, mindless carnage, far more than our dreams died._

_From wounds within and wounds without, I’ve watched you break and bleed_

_I know what you want to do, Roy—and I know what you need._

_The lies they told our people have poisoned heart and soul_

_And evil’s never justified—no matter what the goal_

_Someone’s got to stop it—someone who understands_

_Someone who doesn’t want to see more blood upon his hands_

_There has to be and end to this—on that we are agreed_

_If you’ve got the guts to change the world_

_I’ll get you what you need…._

It was a very long time before Edward found his voice. “You wrote this?”

            “Hey,” she scolded softly. “I’m not as dumb as I act, ya know. But brains and ten cens will get you a cup of coffee and damn little else if you’re a working girl—at least, used to be like that. Mustang gave jobs to women. Got us equal pay. Let us vote. If things had been different my ma coulda gotten an education, ‘stead of havin’ to scrub floors for a living. He’s a good guy. I came up with the ideas and what I thought Hughes might have said to him after I talked with Miss Gracia. I kinda acted out to Alphonse what I thought they would say to each other and he set it to rhyme. I think he even talked to Miss Elycia some. Didn’t he do a good job?”

            In four verses, Gladys and Al and Nina and Elycia had summed up the heart of the profound friendship between Ed’s lover and Hughes. It was not sentimental. It pulled no punches. And for the man who had known them both and the terrible sacrifice Hughes had made that cost             the young officer and father his life, it made Ed’s eyes sting and his throat tighten with emotion….

           

            … _I’ll work within the system—I’ll make sure that you succeed_

_Just give it all you’ve got, Roy—I’ll get you what you need…_

           

            “Is there a tune to that?”

            “Yeah. Alphonse said it was an old folk song from up north. He used that to kinda get the rhyme. I wanted Sherman to write a new tune but he said it ‘put that back on the bathroom roll where it’s useful, doll.’  Boy, what a creep!”

            “You got another copy?” Ed looked down at the typed pages. “Can I have this?”

            “For what?”

            “I got an idea. Hey, Big Cock?”

            The cook glared over his shoulder. “Whatdyawant, Short Stack?”

            Ed flipped him a twenty-cens piece. “Miss Turlough doesn’t pay her tab—ever. _It’s on me.”_

###

            Kelly Winchell ripped off her sleep mask and flung it across the bedroom. Her lap dog, well familiar with his mistress’ ugly moods, dove for safety under the bed. “This better be damn good or---“ She snatched her gold filigree alarm clock off the antique nightstand. “It’s not even seven o’clock!”

            “It’s Mr. Howe from Dewey, Dickon, Howe and Sons, Miss,” the housekeeper informed her nervously. “Said it was very important. Something about _Fire and Vice_.”

###

            “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And I’ll be damned if I know how or why.” Cameron Howe shook his head, staring down at the layouts of _Fire and Vice._ He’d inked the print roll and run some galley tests and tie imprint was crystal clean and absolutely legible.

            Mr Dewey looked surprised. “Did you call Miss Winchell to tell her we can run the first printing now?”

            Cameron Howe made a face like a cat licking something particularly nasty out of its fur. “I did. After which she informed me what I might do with the print rolls. Something distasteful and biologically impractical, to say the least.”  He didn’t mention the comments suggesting that Mr. Howe’s parents had not been married, let alone of the same species or the sounds of hurled objects smashing out the windows of her penthouse apartment. “The _good_ news, however, is that we have the print rolls, we have made a formal offer to run the printing –and increased her royalties on the first print to a full fifteen percent—“

            _“FIFTEEN PERCENT??”_

“—which she immediately rejected. Now,” a chilly smile lit the young man’s keen features, “according to our contract with Miss Winchell, _we_ have now met all the legal terms regarding our responsibilities in the event of failure to meet a printing deadline.  There was an unavoidable delay in printing _Fire and Vice_ , “ he ticked off the items on his fingers, “we have offered equitable compensation with a five percent increase to her royalties, we have offered to rush the first edition out and she has informed us—“

            “—that we are a fat lot of diseased donkey’s testicles and that she’s taken her loathsome talents elsewhere,” Mr. Dewey finished. “If she takes us to court as she’s threatened, she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Furthermore, my boy, we still own the rights of her previously published books for the next ten years, since there’s been no breach of contract.”

            “Which includes those charming children’s stories we found.” Cameron Howe rubbed his hands together in utterly understandable glee. “Oh, and it was just my luck that I found one last Buckety Buckety manuscript. It was laying in a dusty old box not far from where we located the print rolls of _Fire and Vice_.”

            Mr. Dewey adjusted his glasses and flipped through the yellowed manuscript, badly typed and splashed with exclamation points and misspelled words.

            “Hmmm…. _Buckety-Buckety And Wibbles The Wolf: The Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name._ Well…yes…this---OHHH MY!!!”

            “You’ll note the illustrations.”

            Mr. Dewey dropped the manuscript as if burned his fingers.  “What has been seen, can’t be _un_ seen, more’s the pity.”

Cameron retrieved it, grinning openly now. “Not one for the juvenile shelves.”

“Gad, no!”

“Think it will sell?”

“Like choc ice in the desert. Ring up the typesetters, will you, my boy?”

###

            She would _flay them alive._ She would wring Cameron Howe’s skinny neck and feed him to her dog. She would sue them into penury, buy the company with her royalties off the new book and then burn the place to the ground and then _stomp_ on the ashes. She would _beggar_  those sons of whores, take them to the cleaners and destroy every last copy of that god-damned _Buckety-Buckety_ book. She would---

            _“OWWWSHIIIT!! What the fuck???”_

            She had been marching through the back alleys to the DD&H&Sons’ press and warehouse, purse whipping through the air, warming up her swatting arm for her meeting with Cameron Howe and Mr. God-Damned Dewey. She hadn’t been watching where she was going and one arc of her handbag had collided with---

            Sweet Fucking Ishballa On Whole Wheat Toast.

            She’d just clobbered Edward Elric. His nose was bleeding and his broken glasses lay in the alley between her signature pink Aerugoan leather pumps.

            If their roles had been reversed, she would have screamed for the cops, sobbing that she’d been brutally battered with full malice and forethought. She’d have pressed assault charges and seen him dragged off to jail.

            That is what Kelly Winchell would have done.

            Edward Elric was a hell of a lot more vindictive than that.

            Bending down, he retrieved his battered frames from between her plump little feet. Blood dripping from both nostrils, his grin was most unpleasant indeed.

            “Miss…Kelly….Winchell.” His voice was a low purr—the kind that large carnivores make when they are gnawing on bones in the Big Cats exhibit at the Central Park Zoo. He held out his arm. _“Let’s have coffee, shall we?”_

…TO BE CONTINUED….

AUTHOR’S NOTE: the lyrics from “What You Need” were written for me by Barbara Bowen,, 2007 with original music by Theresa Wachowiak. I was honored to have this written for me and have had the pleasure of performing it many, many times over the years. Lyrics shared with permission of author.

 


	25. HOT WATER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody’s in hot water, as Roy schemes to force Hawkeye and Havoc to reconcile, Winry faces some hard questions about Roy’s past as her children read of his role in the Ishballan massacre, Nina Elric faces up to her vandalism at the publishers over the Roy Mustang expose and a certain hack biographer finds out what happens when you refuse to have coffee with Edward Elric…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 25:HOT WATER

            By the Binary Alchemist 2013

 

            It wasn’t a discussion Winry had wanted to have at the breakfast table, but her daughter Sara was never one to hold her tongue about anything. “Mom?” She held up the morning paper. “Did Uncle Roy really kill babies in the war?”

            Sara was pointing to an article on the front page of the _Central Times_   with the headline “ _Blood And Fire_ —A New Look At The President’s Role In The Ishballan Massacre”.  ‘It says here,” she read aloud, “ _’the release of these previously unseen photographs by former military photographer and news reporter Donal Samuelson show in graphic detail the historic 1908 Dahlia campaign and does not flinch from images of charred corpses, smoking ruins and, in one notable image, a badly burned infant clinging to the body of its dead mother. While the volume acknowledges the actions of other well known alchemists such as Alex Louis Armstrong, Giglio Comanche and Zolf Kimblee, much of the book’s focus  centers upon the actions of the then 22-year-old President Roy Mustang, who had recently been certified as a State Alchemist’—“_

            “Give me that!” Winry snatched the paper out of her daughter’s hand before Sara could read any more and upset her siblings. She scanned the article and shook her head. Her children, thankfully, were not growing up in wartime as she and Pitt and the Elric brothers had done. Winry had lost her parents, and even Pitt’s mother had been caught in the crossfire that day in 1907 when Ishballan rebels, armed with Aerugoan weapons, invaded and burned most of Resembool to the ground. For every Amestrian civilian who was killed nearly a hundred more Ishballan men, women and children lost their lives . To Winry’s mind, there was no point keeping score. The war had been senseless, needless and served only the purposes of the regime Roy Mustang had fought to remove from power. ‘

            “Sara,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “before you jump to any conclusions, we need to talk. But not now. After breakfast, let’s go down to the shop, okay? There’s a lot more to this than in the story. My mom and dad were actually there during the war, and your Aunt Riza was there, too. I’m going to put this away,” she gestured towards the morning news, “for now and then let’s talk after breakfast, okay?”

            “Okayyyy….” Sara looked confused and troubled. She adored Uncle Roy. He didn’t visit often but whenever she and her siblings came to visit in Central he always treated the children kindly, always interested in them and their dreams and ambitions. He had encouraged her to keep up with her studies and when she shyly admitted her hopes of studying veterinary medicine he had gifted her with a number of very valuable books he’d found for her. He seemed to care for her, and her step siblings Maes and Nina loved him very, very much. It upset her to think that a man who could be so kind could _kill_ other children…had she been wrong about Uncle Roy all along?

###

            “Welcome back, Colonel Hawkeye.” Roy didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “I’m going on the assumption that Doctor Knox has released you from care with no restrictions?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “What was his diagnosis?”

            Hawkeye was still standing crisply at attention. “Hypertension, Sir, with mild tachycardia. It runs in the family on my mother’s side, according to my mother’s medical records. Doctor Knox has prescribed medications that have worked successfully. My blood pressure is now within normal limits and there are no restrictions on my activities.”

            _“Good.”_ There was something quietly emphatic in that single word that made it clear to Hawkeye that Mustang was relieved she would be fine. “You will continue under his medical supervision and I expect to be updated with any change in your condition. Understood?”

            “Yes, Sir!”

            “Since this is your first day back, I need you to attend to some personal correspondence regarding the economic summit in Table City in three weeks. Familiarize yourself with the itinerary and check to see if there are any potential security issues. Major Havoc is coordinating.”

            A slight pause. “Very good, Sir.”

            “This morning I’ll be in a Parliamentary meeting. I expect to be there until after lunch.  I have scheduled an inspection for you this morning.”

            “Inspection, sir?”

            Mustang pressed the intercom and called for Sebastian, who appeared with disturbing efficiency. “Sebastian, Colonel Hawkeye will be inspecting the second floor Nihonese bathing room. I have consulted with Doctor Knox and he assures me that the water temperature is not sufficient to cause any health risks. You will provide her with towels, a dressing gown and tea. Following this, she will inspect the third floor solarium and critique Chef Ramsay’s revised luncheon menu. We will be having several dignitaries visiting for the wedding. I need to be certain that our hospitality is up to presidential standards. Dismissed!”

 

            Since Roy and Ed didn’t generally luxuriate in the sunken bath during the morning hours, they had made the bathing room accessible by invitation to the immediate family and personal staff. Alphonse had enjoyed it quite a bit, and Havoc had been scolded for leaving ashtrays along the edge of the tub and Nina had scolding him sharply for smoking inside the house.

            So when he was called into the President’s office for his daily assignments he was surprised to be told to inspect the Nihonese bathing room on the second floor. “Check for booby traps, Major. Make sure nothing escapes your attention. I need to check inside the tub and its surroundings. We had plumbing staff on site yesterday checking the overflow skimmer and I want a security follow-up. Sebastian will provide you with towels. Dismissed!”

            “Yessir!”

            Ruby, who had brought some reports from Ed’s office for Roy to look over, glanced at the tall Major as he closed the doors behind him.

            Her sharp gaze moved to the President. “ _Booby_ traps.” She rolled her eyes. “Even for _you_ , that’s bad.”

            Accustomed to Ruby’s lack of respect for anything with a pulse other than Alphonse Elric, Roy smirked into his coffee cup. “This ridiculous quarrel between the Major and the Colonel has gone on long enough. I don’t have time for this. “

            “What are you going to do, lock them in the bath room together?”

            Roy glanced at her, pleasantly reminded once again why Ruby made such a perfect foil and bodyguard for Ed. She was, as Ramsay once observed, definitely one of the sharper knives in the drawer. “An excellent suggestion. See to it, Ruby.”

            “You got it, boss man. Oh,” she added, almost nonchalantly, you’ve got mail.”

            He gave her a mildly exasperated look. “I _always_ have mail, Ruby. I’m the President of Amestris. “

            ‘Yeah, well, _Mister_ President, you don’t always get mail like _this_.” Stepping out into the hall, she returned, pushing a full mail cart ahead of her. “The guys in the mailroom had to call in for reinforcements.”

            Roy looked surprised. Normally his personal mail load was impressive but this was nearly double his morning delivery. The mail room boys sorted his correspondence. Official mail went to Sheska. Anything that might be construed as threatening or suspect went to Hawkeye, Havoc having filled in during her absence. Personal requests, messages from children, and other non-official letters for Roy went through the secretarial team who vetted the requests and sorted them under Greeting, Grievance, Wants Money, Wants Sex, Marriage Proposals, Suggestions, Assistance and Kids. Anything written by a child was delivered straight to Roy’s desk and he and Sheska did their best to acknowledge and respond to each one, even if it was just a quick note.

            “I’m guessing these are from the marriage proposal bin,” Roy guessed. “I never knew that my impending nuptials would make so many women and men jealous.”

            “You _wish_. Nope, we’ve got a brand new category for you, Big Man: War Correspondence.”

            “ _Reall_ y. If this is about _Blood and Fire_ , the damn thing has only been out—let me see…” Snagging the first letter off the top of the bin, Roy unfolded it and began to read aloud. “Juliet Heismann, Age 11. ‘ _Dear President Mustang—you made my little sister cry. We saw in a book that you burned up babies and people and killed all the Isballan people with fire. I didn’t know you could do that. That is very, very mean. My sister cried and cried and said you were a bad man. Dad said it was in a war. I told her I would ask you if you were a bad man or did somebody make you do it? Even if they did, you should have said no…”_

            He opened another. “ _You are a bad, scary man. Go away.”_  He folded the note, scrawled in purple crayon. “Calvin, age 7, Mrs. Teague’s class. West Central Elementary.”

            “So…what are you going to do,” Ruby wanted to know.

            Roy straightened his back and began to neatly stack the children’s letters on his desk. “I’m going to read them.” He took a deep breath. “And find a way to answer them. _All_  of them.”

###

            Hawkeye left for the palace as soon as she’d finished her breakfast, and so Alphonse had had time to linger over coffee at Il Gattina’s with his niece.  He was still rather dusty and grimy from crawling around in the back of the Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons warehouse, standing guard while Nina repaired the damage done to the print rollers of _Fire and Vice_.

The young woman was quite contrite over what she had done—more so since the damage directly resulted in Kelly Winchell teaming up with Donal Samuelson and the release of _Blood and Fire_. She had cried in her uncle’s arms, harder than she had ever wept as a child. And when Elycia had confided to Alphonse and Hawkeye that Nina had recently decided to lay aside a possible career in medical alchemy for public service, the two old friends thought hard about what had been done and how to find an equivalent exchange for the harm done.

            Finally, Alphonse pronounced his judgment. ‘Nina…everybody makes mistakes. I know that better than anybody, except maybe your dad…and your Uncle Roy. We can’t run away from our mistakes and we have a responsibility to face up to what we’ve done. _However_ ,” he lifted a cautioning finger, “if we turn you in or send you to the police, we could be robbing the future of one of the most dedicated public servants it has ever had. This country _needs_ minds like yours, Nina. I’m upset that you and your brother broke the law but I don’t want your career in public service ruined before it begins… _so_ …here is what we will do….”

           

            Young Cameron Howe wasn’t upset to be awakened out of a sound sleep in the wee hours. What he wasn’t used to was pretty girls and their famous uncles and a legendary general invading his flat to talk in the middle of the night.  But he was young enough and kind enough to offer them coffee and cake and to listen as the earnest young woman told him how she had orchestrated the sabotaging of the print run of _Fire and Vice._ She admitted candidly that she was wrong, had led her brother to do wrong and asked not only for forgiveness but the best way to make things right.

            He could have reported her to the police for criminal vandalism, but the sincerity in her voice and face and the great pleasure of not having to deal with Kelly Winchell again swayed him to handle the matter privately.

            And so it was that Nina Elric had repaired the print rolls, Cameron watching in amazement as she worked, great sparks of blue light flashing from her fingertips. “Gee, that’s impressive,” he whistled, adding slyly, “you don’t think you might transmute another Buckety-Buckety book for me, would you?” He was smiling now. “If you could manage that, I’d say the debt is settled.  And,” he pulled out some typewritten notes from his desk, “I’ve got a few ideas from Winchell’s old letters about where the story was heading…it could be a corker if we tried…maybe we could discuss this over luncheon…if you  don’t mind?” He shook her hand gently. “Sometimes we land in hot water and get scalded…but if we’re lucky we get a good cup of tea in the bargain.”

           

            Back at Rose Hill Alphonse had been about to shower off the grime and dust when it occurred to him that a long soak in the sunken bath might be just the ticket after a long and wearying night. Pulling on his dressing gown he strolled down the hall to the bathing room, confident that, with Ed out of the house and Roy at work, his warm dip would be completely undisturbed….

###

 

            “ _Let’s go get some coffee, shall we?”_

Kelly Winchell was given just enough time to snatch back her composure after recognizing the owner of the nose she had just smashed with her purse. She drew herself up indignantly. “I have nothing to say to you.”

            The evil grin widened. “Didn’t think so. You _sure_ you won’t have coffee with me?” Kelly Winchell didn’t dignify him with an answer. “Okay. You asked for it.”

            Edward Elric _screamed_. It was very loud, very high pitched and instantly regrettable.  It cut through her ears like a chain saw against solid steel.  He dropped to the ground, clutching his bleeding face and rolled himself up into a ball, whimpering with agony. “ _….my face…oh god…my face…my---“_

“You’re not hurt,” she hissed. “Get up, Elric! You look ridiculous!”

            Edward continued to yell, the blood from his nose making a gory mess of his shirt. Several drunks peered around corners and out of rubbish dumpsters to see what the ruckus was al about.  Annoyed, Winchell poked him with her foot. He screamed louder. “I’m _blind! I can’t see! She smashed my glasses into my face!!”_

            “Oy! Watchermessinwivhim for, eh?” A mouldy green overcoat that stank of piss appeared at Kelly Winchell’s elbow. There was a head above the collar, and when the mouth opened to speak the stench of the man’s breath nearly wilted her hair spray.

            “Somebody _messin’_   wit’ da Perfesser?” A toothless woman wanted to know. A battered straw hat was jammed on her head, studded with the most lethal assortment of rusty hat pins Winchell had ever seen.

            “Oooh, lookit the _blood!”_   A stocky one-legged man hopped over on crutches. His teeth, what there were of them, sported a fascinating array of green bits, as if he had just trimmed someone’s lawn with his choppers. “Mustang’ll not like seein’ His Nibs all bloody-like.”

            “Who… _what_ …the _hell_ …are you?” Winchell stuttered, clutching her bag to her bosom and unconsciously stepping closer to Edward Elric as if he might protect her.

            Edward sat up abruptly, smiling broadly. “Glad you asked, Miss Winchell. Allow me to introduce you to Big Cock’s Flock—well, some of them, anyway. This is Madhattie—“ the harpy with the straw hat curtsied. “—and Sweetlips—“ he saluted the moss-toothed man on crutches, “and let’s not forget Foul Ole Rooney—don’t’ let him touch you. Scabies are pretty contagious.”

            “Not to worry, Perfesser. Wouldn’t let the ole ratbag lay a finger on me,” Foul Ole Rooney assured him, stepping back a bit from Winchell. “Don’t wan’ none of her uptown cooties in me hair!”

            Winchell was having none of this. Even though the Flock scared the willies out of her she refused to be intimidated.  “Get away from me or…or…I’ll call for the police!”

            “An’ tellem wot, persisely?” Madhattie asked. “That’choo bashed th’ lad in th’ face wiv your bag—and him so pretty an’ all!”

            “Oooh! It’s a _scandal_ , I tell you!” Sweetlips sighed. “I think we need to send for Big Cock.”

            Winchell paled. “Who…?”

            “Guy I’ve known since I was twelve. He’s got some _really_ creative ways of keeping the peace in this neighborhood. “

            “Fink she gots any _gold_ fillin’s in her teeth?” Rooney wanted to know. “Look good on Big Cock’s watch chain if he punches ‘em out her flappin’ jaw, like.”

            Ed lifted his hand, signaling for quiet. ‘Nobody is punching anybody. We’re all… _friends…_ here, right?” Kelly Winchell’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I _said_ right??” Ed repeated. “You might want to nod,” he whispered to the novelist, “if you want to get out of here with your purse in hand and your teeth still in your head.” Winchell nodded, absolutely terrified. “Right! Okay. Thanks, guys!” He fished a few banknotes out of his pocket and handed them around. “Now, go round back to Chris Mustang’s and she’ll have the boys in the kitchen fry you up some steak and eggs and get you a couple of bottles of ale for breakfast.”

            The trio wandered off, giving off strange whistles as they walked. Other shadowy figures crawled out of hiding and joined them. “You see, Aunt Chris and Big Cock take care of the homeless folks out here,” Ed informed his companion. “And in turn, if they hear or see any trouble, Big Cock and Aunt Chris are the first to hear about it—and what they know, Roy Mustang knows, and what Roy Mustang knows can get you into really hot water, lady.” He rose and wiped the blood off his hands on the seat of his pants. “You got a mirror?” Wordlessly, she dug into her purse and handed the compact over. “Jeeze, that’s impressive!” Ed whistled, accessing the damage. “I’d say that’s a deviated septum for sure. What the fuck do you keep in that handbag, brass knuckles?” There were bruises on his face where the frames of his glasses had been driven against the skin. “Crap. Doctor Knox is gonna have fun fixing me up.”

            “What…what are you going to—“

            “Was I going to hand you over to Big Cock? Lady, you don’t _deserve_ a Big Cock…ahahhaahaaa…. _shrggkkkkkptui!”_ ” Ed spat out a mouthful of bloody snot. “I’ve got grounds for charges and a whole alleyfull of witnesses—plus you’ve got my blood on your handbag. I’ve got you dead to rights, Kelly Winchell.”

            She reached for her checkbook. “How much---?”

            “Save it, lady. You can’t buy me off. And you can’t buy _them_ off—“ he gestured towards the retreating crowd of homeless, “—because trust me, Chris Mustang has more money than you’ll EVER have. What I want--” he leaned in close. She held her breath. “—is Equivalent Exchange. No more. No less. That’s going to take some evaluating. I need to see how bad the damage is. And I ain’t talking about monetary value of fixing my glasses or my nose. Not to mention, I have to explain to the President how I got my face smashed up.”

            “You know damn well I didn’t mean to—“

            “Ah, but you meant to hit somebody, right? I mean, what the hell are you doing in this part of town at this hour of the morning?”

            Winchell pressed her lips tightly together. It wouldn’t do to have Elric know she was heading over to Dewey, Dickon, and Howe and Sons to raise hell with that awful Cameron Howe. ‘I was waiting for the bookshops to open.”

            “Oh yeah? Speaking of books—“ he grabbed the bloody purse and peered inside. “ _Damn_. You’ve got—let’s see—seven…eight---eight copies of _Buckety-Buckety_ in your purse, lady. No wonder you broke my damn nose.”

            She had forgotten that she had found eight copies on the shelf at Bounders Books near the train station last night during a _Blood and Fire_  book signing and bought them all, threatening the manager with dire consequences if he reordered any more copies. “I…I didn’t mean—“

            “—skip it, lady. Just skip it. Gimme your phone number.”

            “Why?”

            ‘I said I needed to think about how you’re gonna make this up to me—unless you’d rather I call the cops and have them chat with our… _witnesses?_ No? Okay, hand it over.”

            She scribbled her number on the inside of a copy of _Buckety-Buckety_  and shoved it at him.

            Tucking his broken glasses into the pocket of his waistcoat, Ed offered the hack novelist a courtly little bow and walked away.”

            “Wait!” she shouted. “What are you going to do?”

            _“In order to obtain something desired,”_  Edward recited cheerfully as he turned the corner, “ _something of equal value must be sacrificed…”_

…TO BE CONTINUED…

           

 


	26. PARANOIA FOR FUN AND PROFIT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Havoc and Hawkeye begin the rocky road to reconciliation (with a little help from their friends). Anti-alchemy riots are breaking out in Amestris and an attack outside West City has become a source of worry for Roy…and a personal loss for Alphonse. Meanwhile, Ed’s revenge on Roy’s ‘biographer’ has her too paranoid to badmouth Mustang to the press, thanks to the help of some of Chris Mustang’s network of ‘ street informants’.

Roy had been on the horn all morning. He missed the final fitting of his wedding suit. When the tailor rang up and asked to speak to the President, Roy took the call, listened to the tailor rant for exactly five seconds before hanging up without a word.

Sheska noticed that her boss never asked for a cup of coffee. As a test, she placed a couple of jelly donuts on his desk at midmorning tea time and did not hear the traditional complaint and request that they be replaced with pastries instead.

Eventually, even Ed got escorted out of the Presidential office, taking an unrequited erection with him. Miffed, Ed ducked into the kitchen and confronted Chef Ramsay. "No goddamn salads for lunch," Ed warned. "Get some real food into him. He's in a pissy mood and it's probably starvation."

Ramsay consulted the menu. "He's supposed to be on rabbit food at lunch until the wedding. Says he wants to look good for the cameras."

"Fuck that. The only person he has to look good for is me. I never thought he needed to lose any weight to begin with. The only fat on Roy Mustang is in his head, the conceited prick! Get him some grease and sugar—hell, get him some damned _bacon_! We gotta get him out of this crappy mood before I shove my foot up his ass!"

###

Alphonse turned his face into the morning breeze. He took a deep gulp of the sweet, cold air. There was, he detected, a hint of spring and promise in the day. That was fine with Alphonse. The winter had been hard and bitter, and he was glad to turn his mind to pleasanter things, such as Ed and Roy's wedding, now only a few weeks away.

He'd headed out a little after 6:00 a.m., well before reporting in to Ruby at his office at the Hohenheim Institute. A cup of coffee with Elycia at Il Gattina, picking up a couple of stale bread rolls from the bakery so he could feed the wild birds from his favorite bench in Central Park, right across the green from Central HQ, now home to the Amestrian Parliament.

He waved to a newsboy—one of Chris Mustang's boys, no doubt—overpaying the kid as Al always did. "Keep the change and get yourself some breakfast." He could have read any of a dozen or so papers that Ed devoured along with his eggs and toast, his pale blond head barely visible above the fury of flapping pages. Al preferred his park bench, a steaming to-go cup and his own copy of the _Central Times_ that hadn't been stained by Ed's spilled coffee or underlined and notated by Roy.

Surrounded by a flock of bedraggled, gunmetal-grey birds, Alphonse tore one of the rolls to bits before tossing the crumbs aloft. A pouty-looking specimen promptly pooped on the front page. "That's the thanks I get?" Al shouted as he shooed the bird away. "At least you didn't drop that bomb in my coffee." Pulling a tissue from his pocket, he began to wipe the offending splatter off the newsprint when the blaring headline made him stop mid-gesture:

 **"** ANTI-ALCHEMY PROTESTS SPARK RIOT IN WEST CITY—TWO INJURED, FIFTEEN ARRESTED"

Alphonse cursed aloud. The startled flock winged abruptly into the trees and there was a wet _splat_ on Al's shoulder as if to confirm his fears that the status of an alchemist was not as honored as it had once been, thanks to that damned book about Roy and Ishbal…

###

Jean Havoc ran a finger over the hairline crack in the windshield of Roy Mustang's presidential staff car. He frowned. "Not a bullet."

Breda looked doubtful. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Just a crack. Don't get paranoid, Breda."

"It's getting ugly, Havoc."

Havoc dusted his hands on his pants and sighed. "Yeah it is, thanks to Samuelson and that goddamned book getting everybody riled up." He straightened his uniform cap. "Hell of a time for a presidential wedding."

"No kidding. You beefing up security?"

"Riz—I mean—Colonel Hawkeye beat me to it. "

"Glad to know she's taking it seriously."

Havoc grinned. Things weren't back to normal but at least she was having coffee with him again and agreeing to dates for dinner and target practice. "I asked her what she was going to wear to the Chief's wedding. She said 'same thing as you—urban camouflage, rappelling harness, twenty meters of rope and a machine gun'."

###

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" A copy of _The Publisher's Weekly Gazette_ slammed down on the café table in front of Kelly Winchell, hard enough that if there had been a cockroach underneath it, it would have been smeared right into the wood grain. "Goddamn it, woman, you had a prime opportunity to cut Mustang's nuts off in print and you fucking _blew it_!"

Frank Archer's nostrils flared as he took a deep pull on his cigar. "Good thing they've had those shootings in the East—and those protests outside the Hohenheim. It's getting so a man or woman will maybe think twice before admitting they've committed alchemy-"

" _Shootings?"_ Winchell, blonde head swiveled but her lacquered helmet of hair didn't budge an inch. "Nobody told me anything about people getting shot over alchemy."

"Not _people_ , you dumb broad! Just a few warning shots. Few broken windows, couple of thrown bricks. Between Samuelson's rallies and our book, the ignorant sheep that are the Amestrian voting public are sending Roy Mustang a message that he can't run from his past. But—" he leveled a nicotine-stained finger at the authoress, "—you better step up your game, girl, or we are gonna lose momentum over the book…and if we lose momentum with _this_ one, you're not gonna get them interested in that _Fire and Vice—_ if you can get the rights to it back from Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons."

He could hear her teeth grinding above her coffee cup. Thanks to that ever-so-efficient young Cameron Howe and his lawyer, it had become painfully clear that _Fire and Vice_ wouldn't see the light of day for at least ten years while DD &H&S still held exclusive rights to her earlier works and her signed contract. Legally, they had her by the ovaries, and the thought that they also owned the rights to that goddamned _Buckety-Buckety_ series made her want to grab her pink leather pocketbook, fill it with bricks, and beat Cameron Howe worse than she had beaten Edward Elric….

"Are you even _listening_ to me, Kelly?"

There was a motion behind Archer's shoulder, on the other side of the café window. A shabby looking man was half-way scrubbing the smudgy glass with a dirty rag and a bottle of ammonia. He was smiling broadly at her. His teeth were greener than Roy Mustang's front lawn. He waved.

She threw up in her mouth, just a little.

Damn. They were _everywhere._

Damn Edward Elric, that faggot bastard with the piss-yellow eyes. No matter where the hell she went in this city some stinking ratbag of a homeless bum or wino or bag lady _staring_ at her, smiling at her with their ruined mouths, waving with grimy hands.

If she went out to eat, they leered at her through restaurant windows. If she took refuge in the ladies' loo she would inevitably hear the slop of a mop hitting the bathroom floor while she was in the stall. When she emerged she would never fail to see some old witch like Mad Hattie with a bucket of filthy water, cackling at Kelly as she curtseyed with a toothless grin.

If she went out to her car, some old, one-eyed rummy would be loitering on the curb beside her vehicle or offering to clean her windshield with a rag soaked in what smelled like cat pee.

And two days ago when she was sitting in the office at _Publisher's Weekly_ giving a book interview she had clammed up in terror yet again because the handyman who had trudged through the office to look at a broken office chair looked suspiciously like Foul Ole Rooney. She didn't dare offer her interviewer anything juicy or borderline slanderous when there was one of Cock's Flock within earshot. Why, who knows what those vermin-ridden creatures were capable of?

Radio, newsreel, paper or magazine—in an office or studio or even in the gazebo in the middle of the goddamn Central Park duck pond-she was never alone now. They never touched her. They rarely spoke other than a cheery 'g'day, Missus!'. She'd worn her polish off her nails dialing the city guard to complain, but those bastards didn't seem to give a damn. "Sorry, Miss," the last one told her. "I can't press charges when there's been no violation."

And now Archer was chiding her for wanting to lay low and keep her mouth shut? "I—" she stammered, then pursed her lips. Her hand crept towards her bag as she considered smacking Archer across his scowling face.

Right on cue, something vast and smelly wrapped in moth-eaten wool appeared at her elbow. It held out a dirty, dog-eared copy of _Buckety-Buckety_ and a pen that was so chewed on one end she feared to touch it at the risk of catching something contagious. "Oooh! Only it's Missus Winchell!" it croaked. "Can I have yer autograph?"

She ground her teeth so hard she heard one of her crowns crack on the left side.

God _damn_ that Edward Elric!

###

She was such a familiar sight now that nobody took notice of her anymore. She didn't come every morning, but often enough. Roy didn't object. Neither did Doctor Knox. "Well, she's sleeping better, or so she says. Her blood pressure looks good. Maybe she wants to get her own built at her place."

"No point," Roy answered good naturedly. "She's usually over here anyway. If it is doing her good to use the tub, fine."

It was doing Riza Hawkeye a great deal of good to use the Xingese bath-but only if Alphonse Elric was in it.

That first time…it had been completely unexpected. She'd showered off and submerged herself waist deep when Havoc had stumbled in and somehow the bathing room door had gotten locked. She attempted to act nonchalant, and perhaps if Jean— _Havoc_ , she reminded herself sharply, had been capable of staring at anything other than her naked breasts, they might have begun some sort of earnest communication that in time—possibly—might have led to a reconciliation.

Havoc being Havoc, things did not end well. In fact, they had ended with the lock being shot out of the bathing room door and Havoc running for his life, an armed, angry and very naked Riza Hawkeye chasing him as far as the door-

-whereupon she collided with Alphonse Elric, clad in nothing but a flimsy cotton bathing robe.

"Don't shoot!" Al begged her earnestly. He threw both arms above his head, causing the loosely tied sash of his bathing robe to drop to the ground, revealing a sculpted, youthful body and a masculine endowment that made even Riza Hawkeye pull up her pistols. She yanked him abruptly inside, slamming the door behind them…

She'd heard the rumors. Women got into hair-ripping fights over Alphonse Elric. When the Aerugoan National Ballet was in town, she'd had to provide crowd control. He was the only man in Amestris to receive more fan mail and marriage proposals than Roy Mustang, and even though his personal phone number was unlisted he had to change it so often that there was really no reliable way to get in touch with Al unless you were either Edward Elric or Winry Renback…or Chris Mustang, who could manage to get the goods on anyone with an active pulse.

Somehow, though, Alphonse always managed to find Riza Hawkeye when she needed him—proof that Roy Mustang wasn't the only man in her life who always seemed to know how she was doing without her ever saying a word.

Alphonse knew what Riza needed—he knew without asking and gave without hesitation. It was the real reason that women fell in love with him by the dozens—the reason he could gently deflect their obsessions and declarations of eternal love without ever hurting anyone.

Alphonse _listened_.

And that, more than sexual gratification, was what Riza needed more than anything.

She had seen him naked. He was beautiful and she was intrigued, even if the thought of their age difference—she'd known him since he was a child, a child in armor—made her squeamish and uncomfortable. But his first words to her as they entered into the steaming water together changed everything:

_"I know what it means to want someone you can't have. It must break your heart sometimes."_

He touched her shoulder so gently, his eyes filled with empathy and an unspoken promise that whatever she told him, naked in the dim, steam filled room with its bamboo fountain and flickering iron lanterns, he would keep close to his heart and would never be shared, not even with his beloved brother.

A gunshot wound would have been less painful, but as days passed the words cracked through her veneer of self control. She told him about her father-about her pain and loss, and how Master Berthold's serious young apprentice had been her lifeline—her hope, her help and, eventually, the center of her life.

And as if it were Equivalent Exchange, Alphonse touched some part of Riza Hawkeye, sharing his own pain and his own secrets. Al's love for Winry that could prove the undoing of both of them. The love of Julia Crichton that was so deep, yet the gulf between them was too wide to be breached. He loved Winry but knew in the end the same things that helped destroy her marriage to Ed would be the same things that would have wrecked any chance of happiness she would have had with Alphonse.

How Al had turned his heart back to Julia, bringing her to Resembool to celebrate Solstice that year in hopes she might be willing to leave Milos and begin a life with him, two alchemists sharing a lifetime of journey and adventure. And how Winry had reacted, with the same impulsiveness that set her after Edward. Pitt had been quite surprised to learn that he was about to become a father and there had been a nearly-comical rush to the Magistrate's office with a very pregnant Winry, little Sarah very nearly arriving as guest of honor at Pitt and Winry's wedding.

She had lost Roy—no, she had never had him to begin with, not in the way she yearned for. Alphonse had loved two women deeply, but he could not risk hurting one, while the other chose a life of service to her people over a life with him.

 _"I know what it means to want someone you can't have. It must break your heart sometimes."_ It could and it did, and when he held her gently they confided and shared that pain and the sharing of it was a greater gift to her than any pleasure Al could have given her with his body.

In the end, her time with Alphonse in the Xingese bath had done more for Riza's well being than any of Dr. Knox's pills or prescriptions. In truth, some days it was only the comfort of their friendship that gave her the strength to forgive Jean for his foolishness and to bear the pain of seeing Roy so happy about his impending marriage to another man.

Last night, Jean had stayed over. She stiffened when he touched her, but to her surprise he spent the entire night ignoring his own needs, focusing only on her pleasure. He had exhausted her in the most surprising ways and she had fallen asleep cradled tenderly in Jean's arms.

It had been good. Correction—it had been great, better than any intimacy they had shared before. Maybe, she wondered, it was because it _was_ intimacy. She had let him into her body years before—but had she ever let him into her soul? Had she kept that part of herself so tightly locked up, as if only Roy Mustang held the key to her being?

She had learned to let Alphonse in. Perhaps there was room for Jean Havoc, too.

Showering quickly, she draped her robe over a hook behind the dressing screen . Slipping into the warm water, she waited for Alphonse….

###

When a rustic bacon-and-pigeon pie was served at luncheon, Roy poked the flaky crust disinterestedly for a moment, then summoned Sebastian. "Get someone down to the coops and count those damned birds Princess Elena sent for the wedding. If there's even so much as a feather short, replace it immediately-"

Ed shoveled in another forkful. "—and throw it on the grill. This is great!" He grinned and lifted his beer glass in salute. "Now that's Eastern down-home cooking for you!"

Roy put down his napkin and waved his plate away. "Just coffee," he instructed the butler.

"And a ham sandwich," Ed corrected. "Get him a sandwich. Get him some pickles and slaw, too. Got to keep up your stamina, old man. Especially after last—"

_"Shut up, Ed."_

"Hey, who pissed in your coffee this morning?" Ed snapped back, reaching across the table for the pepper pot. "You've had a sharp stick up your butt all day. What's the matter? Al still getting more love letters than you, or—"

"You know, Ed, for a man who's rumored to be so intelligent you don't have a clue what's going on in the world, do you?"

Ed wasn't having it. " _One_ , Samuelson is still down in the polls. _Two_ , the railway strike in Xing is still under negotiation. Miles is headed over there to arbitrate as a neutral power. _Three,_ the Central Green Sox pitched a no-hitter against the South City Sluggers—Al owes me a case of beer, by the way. And Kelly Winchell made an ass of herself again in _Publisher's Weekly_ with another weak-ass interview—which means _you_ owe me a case of beer _and_ a half hour blowjob—"

Roy gave Ed a strange look. "Fine. I'll pay up. Right after I send my condolences."

"Huh?"

His lover's face was an unreadable mask. "Those anti-alchemist riots. There was one in West City last night."

"Yeah. I know. Fifteen jerks got thrown in the slammer for trying to beat up alchemists." Ed's eyes narrowed. "Donal Samuelson and his asshole buddy Archer aren't making life any easier. It's daily news now. I thought the national guards took care of that. Luckily only two guys were hurt and no fatalities-"

" _—that were reported, Ed.."_ Dark eyes burned with barely suppressed anger. "How, exactly, do you report the death a Cretan alchemist who had crossed the border without a passport? A man in a mask that was gathering intelligence for his own work with the Milosian faction? A man that doesn't legally exist…except, perhaps to his sister?

###

They didn't know him, but they still gathered beside their tribal leader, flowers in hand. It didn't matter that they didn't know him. No Milos died alone or unmourned. They sang to comfort one another, braiding the colorful blossoms that once only bloomed in the muck and filth of the canyonlands. The Milos lived in the sunlight now in an uncomfortable truce with the Cretans. Amestris had actually ceded some Western border land to Creta for the repatriation of the Milosians until such a time came as the Cretan government would provide them with lands of their own. Meanwhile alchemists had worked tirelessly to find a solution to the question of a Milosian homeland.

Just as it seemed that the alchemists on all three sides had found a way to work together, the mob came.

Fifteen angry men from Amestris came into the encampment at the edge of West city, shouting that alchemy was an abomination, that it had bathed the nation in innocent blood and that it was time to outlaw it before more wars were started. _"Remember Dahlia!"_ they shouted. " _Remember Table City!"_

The Milosians, who held so much faith in the Sacred Star—the Sanguine Star, the Star made of alchemy and blood—asked the mob to leave. "I hear they've got some alchemist bitch running the tribe!" one of the Amestrians yelled. "How do we know she won't use the Star of Milos against us! It's Ishbal and Dahlia all over again!"

A man in a mask dashed into the crowd. " _Don't you dare threaten Julia!"_

When he was struck down, the Milosians fought back. In a handful of minutes the mob was driven off unharmed. Two alchemists among the tribe were wounded but were still able to help drag away the body of the man in the mask. It would never do for the Cretans or Amestrians to know his name—not if they hoped to keep the peace they had been building since the intricate moats of Table City ran red with the blood of Amestrian soldiers sacrificed by an alchemist named Atlas on behalf of the Cretan government.

The man in the mask had several names. One of them had been Herschel when he had worn a Cretan uniform and no longer had a face of his own. Once he had been healed by the Star of Milos and the love of his little sister, his own face had been returned to him, although he did not ever mention the name he was born with to anyone except Julia.

Biting back the tears, Julia Crichton placed a wreath of woven roses into the hands of the little girl at her side. "Time to say goodbye," she whispered, giving the child a gentle smile to let her know it was all right. _"This is the way of things_ ," Julia told her gently.

The girl stood up on tiptoes. She placed the rose wreath over the flowing hair and kissed the bruised cheek. "Uncle Ashleigh…I won't forget you, not ever." Taking a small torch that Julia offered, she thrust it into the pyre.

As the fire licked the sides of Ashleigh Crichton's bier, his sister reached into her pocket and drew out a single earring that matched the one she never took off. Her brother had transmuted it from a bit of broken pot metal scrounged from the trash heap of their old home.

In the dim light, the child's brimming eyes seemed almost golden. Julia placed the earring into the child's ear lobe and kissed her, folding her close to her heart…

###

 _Coitus Interruptus_.

Havoc couldn't spell it but he damn well knew what it meant. He'd worn his right hand damn near off but it had been worth it. Last night had been amazing with Riza…just damned _amazing_. He wasn't going to push the issue of his own needs but when she turned him on his back and-

-and the doorbell rang.

"Ignore it, " Jean begged. The doorbell kept on ringing, and now he could hear a man's voice calling urgently through the front door.

Riza kissed him swiftly, grabbed her robe and hurried to the door. Jean grabbed a sheet and dashed after her.

In a wedge of light he could see a miserable Alphonse Elric standing in the doorway, his face glazed with fresh tears. When Riza pulled him into the house and hugged him tightly, something ugly squirmed in the pit of Havoc's stomach.

Then he saw Alphonse's face above Riza's head. The younger man reached out and clasped Havoc's shoulder tightly.

"Tonight," he choked, "I need all the friends I can get…."

….TO BE CONTINUED…

 


	27. MUSTANG AND THE MUCKRAKER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy’s unauthorized biographer, Kelley Winchell smashed Ed in the face and broke his nose. Instead of filing assault charges, he’s demanding Equivalent Exchange—and she has been summoned to an audience with the last person in the world she wants to talk to: President Mustang.

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 27: THE MUSTANG AND THE MUCKRAKER  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013

“Your mother must have dropped you on your head when you were a small child.” Roy flapped his morning paper open, raising it like a flimsy shield between himself and his lover. “That’s the only thing that could explain such deranged thinking.”  
Ed shot a glance in Sebastian’s direction. “You don’t think I’m nuts, do you?”  
After the slightest hesitation, the butler bowed to him. “I am quite certain, Master Edward, that there is method to…ah…to---“  
“—his madness?” Roy offered.  
“Perhaps I would phrase it differently,” Sebastian demurred, excusing himself before Edward could badger him further.  
“You are actually going through with this?”  
“Well….you’ve got me over a barrel. This won’t work if you don’t play along with it.”  
The paper lowered enough to reveal a pair of black brows, knitted in consternation. “A dangerous game. It may backfire.”  
“And it may not,” Ed shot back. “And you agreed---“  
“I am very much aware of what I agreed to,” Roy growled back. “It was only the pleasure of you having to pay the agreed-upon forfeits if you lose that made me consent to playing a role in this farce.” Among those forfeits were items that guaranteed Ed’s lips would fall off, his flesh knee would be raw from carpet burns and his nethers would be exceedingly tender for the better part of a week. Roy, understandably, would be delighted if the whole mad ‘Kelley Winchell payback’ scheme blew up as spectacularly as Maes’ last attempt to improve the internal combustion engine. “You sure you’re man enough for this, Ed?”  
Ed flashed a feral grin, his mind flashing on images of Roy with carpet burns on his knees and a dislocated jaw from the promised three hour blowjob.  
“Let the games begin. Al’s going to pick her up around tea time. You good with that?”  
The paper was folded and neatly laid aside. “Now, wait a minute. I booked him tickets on a transport airship to Table City—“  
“—and he’s not going,” Ed answered, looking annoyed.  
“Ridiculous. Ashleigh Creighton’s dead. Julia needs—“  
“—nothing, apparently. They’re both acting like idiots!” Ed looked genuinely angry. “I told him to go anyway, and he said that Julia laid down the law and told him thanks but no thanks. She’s not going to let him come, and as tribal leader of the Milos, she could even stop him at the border, if she’s that damn stubborn.”  
If Julia declined Al’s support at a time like this, Roy reckoned, then as far as the President was concerned, the matter was closed. Reaching for his coffee, his eye caught a headline below the fold. He stared at it for a few quiet moments and then held it up for Ed to see. “Speaking of your brother….do you think he had anything to do with this?”  
“ICE CREAM BLONDE PUNCHES MUSIC HALL STAR LEHRER, QUITS FULLMETAL MUSICAL”  
###  
It was intriguing, really.  
The little man with the receding hairline and the fondness for drink had made quite a name for himself around Amestris with his bombastic rhetoric about alchemy and the military state and how Roy Mustang had barbequed small children during the final campaigns of the Ishballan Rebellion. Donal Samuelson had puffed out his chest and strutted across stage after stage, cashing in on his fame as a radio personality in hopes of knocking Roy Mustang off the catbird seat.  
Yes, it had been quite entertaining, but now people were getting hurt. Today’s news brought word of a foiled attempt to throw a petrol bomb into the Alchemic Arts building at the Hohenheim. There were rumbles and undercurrents that perhaps the State Alchemists should be called before the National Court to stand trial for war atrocities. And while it would have been amusing to watch Roy Mustang attempt to charm his way out of a prison sentence, having the country swayed by a mindless mob of rioters and amateur anarchists was defeating the purpose of supporting the Samuelson presidential bid. He was fast becoming a little more than a yapping little dog—small, ridiculous and highly annoying.  
It was time for his financiers to give his leash a good yank.  
The phone call was swift and to the point. “One week, Samuelson. One week to stop the rioting. After that, if we hear even a suggestion of an impending incident against the alchemists, you’re done.”  
Samuelson’s insides churned and he reached for his hip flask. Yanking off the cap, he downed a swallow of scotch. “You can’t be serious.”  
“You’ve heard the saying, ‘money can’t buy love’? There’s truth to that, but it CAN buy votes, and when your campaign war chest is empty you’ll have to resort to sexual favors to finance your run for the presidency. Is that perfectly clear, Samuelson?”  
“Y…yes…I’ll….I’ll see what I can do. I promise.”  
The voice on the other end of the phone was cool and amused by his panic. “That’s the spirit. Either use that silver tongue of yours to persuade your constituency to settle down or, “ there was a nasty chuckle, “you can use it to lick boots and lick buttocks to pay off your campaign debts.”  
###  
It was nine in the morning and the beauty cream she had slathered on her wrinkles before bed last night seemed to have glued her cheek to the pillowcase. Two dozen or so wire hair rollers dug into her scalp and the cucumber slices she had placed over her closed eyelids to ease the puffiness had slipped off her face and dropped down the front of her frilly pink nightgown.  
The Very Quiet Man who had been admitted into Kelley Winchell’s bedroom did not seem to notice. “Good morning.”  
She clawed frantically under her pillow for her pearl handled .38 revolver, “Who the hell are you?” she snarled. “Get the hell out of my bedroom!”  
“Sebastian Corby at your service, Ma’am. Your housekeeper let me in after inspecting my credentials.” He offered her a leather ID case. She yanked it out of his hand and flipped it open. It identified the intruder as Sebastian M. Corby, Special Operations and Security, and bore the state seal. The affidavit card bore the signatures of three Fuhrers: Bradley, Grumman and Mustang. His smile was as smooth as a plastered wall and about as pliable. Womanly charm wasn’t going to get through to this one, she recognized. If she shot him, she could be arrested for wounding a government agent. She couldn’t run—she was trapped in her own bed and in her nightgown and he stood between her and the door to her private bathroom. She couldn’t even find her purse to bean him over the head, but if this son of a bitch was from Presidential Security, it was a damn good chance that clobbering Edward Elric with that same damn handbag had gotten her into this mess to begin with.  
Fuck.  
“What do you want?”  
“An invitation to Rose Hill for this weekend. President Mustang will be expecting you. Flight-Captain Alphonse Elric will come to collect you and your luggage this afternoon in time for a private tea with His Excellency, followed by supper with the family. I have been advised to inform you that dress is casual, and not to worry about amenities. You need only pack your clothing and any medications you might require.” He bowed gracefully, and there was a hint of something in his eyes that informed her that Very Unpleasant Things might ensue if she told him to bugger off. “Good day, Miss Winchell.”  
###  
The windows rattled worse than Kelley’s nerves. “What the hell is that racket?” she yelled above the roar that jolted her so badly she spilled coffee all over her freshly pressed skirt.  
Matilda peered out the window. “There’s a motorcycle at the curb, Ma’am, and a very tall—ohh myyyy!” Her secretary’s eyes grew wide. “It’s…is that Alphonse Elric??” She hastily yanked off her glasses and smoothed her hair. “I’ve never seen him up close! He’s so---“  
“Dead,” Kelley finished. “If Edward Elric thinks for one fucking minute I’m getting on a motorcycle—“  
“—with your arms around him??” Matilda was looking dazed and dreamy-eyed. “And your legs pressed up against his?? I’d die for the chance, Ma’am.”  
“Fine. You go. I’m dressed for tea, damn it—and now I’ve got to go and change because you made me spill all over my lap. The last thing I want to do is get close to some sweaty---“  
“Miss Kelley….good afternoon. I’m Alphonse.”  
The motorcycle helmet was removed, revealing a tousled shock of fair hair and twinkling amber eyes. His grin was boyish and it carbonnated her secretary’s hormones. Matilda looked like she wanted to pour hot fudge sauce all over the man’s riding leathers and lick it off. “My car is in the shop,” he apologized, “so I had to borrow my nephew’s motorcycle. We can put your bag in the sidecar and you can ride behind me.”  
The only words Matilda seemed to hear were ‘ride….me’. She was frozen on the spot even as the lace of her panties began to smolder at the sight of the legendary aeronaut-alchemist.  
Kelley snapped her fingers. “Get my bags,” she ordered crisply to the bedazzled secretary. “Let’s get this over with.”

She was shown to her room by the smiling Sebastian after a ride that was…well…  
Frankly stimulating.  
Alphonse Elric smelled…nice. Her arms had been curled around his lean torso, clasped inches above his…she shook her head to drive out the fantasies. Then there was that voice, that warm baritone that was confiding, playful and startlingly intimate all at once.  
And he was young. Not more than 35. Trim and fit and energetic and ever so kind. When he spoke to you, there was no one else in the room—no one else in the world. When he escorted her to the front door and handed her over to that dreadful Sebastian creature, he kissed her hand in farewell. She held it to her cheek without even debating whether or not she was being ridiculous.  
“Miss Winchell? Come with me, please.”  
Sebastian again. Shot down from the clouds of her pleasant reverie, Kelley remembered why she had been brought to Rose Hill. The thought made her very annoyed indeed….  
###  
“It’s me.”  
“I was afraid of that. I was certain it was another diseased lunatic who has been sleeping in a rubbish bin outside of Central Park who just wanted to wish me a happy weekend—no wait, he’s been following me all week, along with a woman with one eye, a man with no teeth and even a dog that piddled on my white sidewall tires--”  
“—that’s Sukey. She belongs to Big Cock. You didn’t smack her with your bag or anything did you? Last man who hit Sukey had to scrub her kennel with a toothbrush at gunpoint. Anyway, I wanted to tell you it’s Equivalent Exchange time—and you’ll be glad to know it doesn’t involve any loss of dignity or bodily harm—even if you did deviate my septum—“  
“---you were a deviant before I ever hit you, you miserable—“  
“Ah-ah-ah! Temper temper, Miss Winchell! As I said, I’m not gonna have you mop out the toilets at the C-Town Grill or make you clip Madame Christmas’ toenails. But,” his voice dropped a half octave into a chuckle that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, “you’re not gonna like it.  
“For the first time in your life….you’re gonna have to….tell…the… truth…”  
###  
“You’ll want these, Ma’am.”  
A pale hand held out a pair of knee-high rubber boots. “These belong to Miss Nina. She wears them over her shoes, so they should be a good fit.”  
“My feet,” Kelley shot back, “are not that big!” Angrily, she jammed her right toot into one of the boots with her pink leather high heeled pump still on her foot. It wouldn’t budge. Mumbling something under her breath about forcing Roy Mustang to buy her a new pair of silk stockings, she flung off her shoes, yanked on the boots and followed Sebastian thru the kitchen and out into the misty late afternoon.

“Out there, Ma’am. I’ll close the gate behind you.”  
“Out there” meant a trudge across the wet courtyard and through the gate of a small paddock. In the distance she could see a stable hand grooming a tall, slender horse, surrounded by bales of hay. The sounds of whinnying and blowing carried on the misty air.  
Kelley cringed. She hated horses. Great smelly brutes that left messy piles in the road when she was child. Her brothers used to hurl ‘road apples’ at one another for fun and spite and she remembered getting caught in the crossfire one time, the dung splatting all over the front of her pinafore. Now she understood why Sebastian had handed her the boots. “I am to have tea with His Excellency,” she told him coldly.  
“Indeed.” He gestured towards the pasture again. “You must not keep him waiting, Ma’am.”

The muck and mud squished unpleasantly under her boot soles as she passed through the gate, Sebastian closing it firmly behind her. Instinctively, her hand rose to cover her nose. The rank odor of horse sweat and dung offended her. She slogged her way to the groomsman. “I’m here to see His Excellency!” she snapped. “When will he be back?”  
“Shhhhhh. Please lower your voice. I’ve been trying to calm her down.” By her, the groomsman was referring to the slender mare whose neck he was gently stroking. She looked peculiarly lean and her coat was a strange, almost metallic chestnut. At the sight of Kelley the mare startled, and jerked her head. The man’s bare hands moved to the bridle to steady the frightened beast. He moved his face close to hers, lowered his mouth close to her nostrils and began to puff out his breath very gently, timing his breath with the mare’s.  
One hand gestured for her to sit down on one of the hay bales. “She’s about to be artificially inseminated. I can’t blame her for being skittish.” He pointed to a large bucket of soapy water, a rather large syringe without a needle and a large pair of rubber gloves. “I don’t know,” the man chuckled softly. “You think I should have brought her flowers?”  
He glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling a little. It was the President of Amestris. “Let her sniff you. Give her your scent.”  
Kelley was paralyzed with fear. He was waiting. She tugged off her fine kidskin gloves, popping off the tiny pearl buttons. Screwing her eyes tight with terror, she stuck out her hand. Mustang sniffed at her wrist. “Layla doesn’t care for perfume. There’s soap in the bucket, and the water’s still warm. Wash up and then let her smell you.” There was the merest suggestion of presidential order in is tone. She obeyed, wiping her hands on the towel he handed her. The strange looking mare sniffed and nickered softly. “That’s good. She seems okay now. Just rub her neck and talk to her. She’s tied up and isn’t going anywhere. Let me get this done and then we’ll have tea.” Mustang pulled on the rubber gloves. Why were they so long? Just exactly what was the President playing at?  
The last thing Kelley Winchell recalled seeing before she passed out into the mud was Roy Mustang positioning his right hand somewhere behind the mare and his arm disappearing past the elbow….  
###

 

“She’s an Ahkal-Teke. They’re nearly extinct. Edward was able to obtain some semen samples on his travels from the Turkoman herd remnants that he located in Nihon—“ he paused and shook his head. “I ramble. You know how people are with their hobbies. Another blanket, Maud?”  
She sat up straight. “What did you call me?”  
He poured her a tin mug of steaming brew. “By your first name. Maud Kelley Winchell. Kelley is your pen name—your mask to the world---and after all, aren’t we here to be truthful with one another, Maud?”  
When he handed her the mug, she suddenly realized how physically close they were and it unnerved her. Alphonse may have made her heart beat a little faster, but this man—this…Mustang---everything about him was different. Alphonse may have been taller and a tad more muscular, but there was something dangerously magnetic about the older man that unsettled her more than the younger Elric brother.  
He was so close she could see the tiny droplets of moisture on his hair from the mist that was rolling in from the west.—and there was the most intriguing scent that surrounded him: a pleasant jumble of wood smoke and sandalwood and leather…and maybe a hint of sex. When she looked into his face she saw that his eyes were fringed thickly with dark lashes and his skin was remarkably smooth for a man of fifty. With his hair tumbled over his forehead, tousled and relaxed looking in his patched, faded barn coat and riding breeches and boots, he reminded her of the classic Dangerous Hero from the sort of cheap romance paperback books she devoured along with milk chocolate cherries when nobody else was around.  
Being around these people was like living a romance book, really. Alphonse was the Dashing Young Hero, of course, and his brother was the Evil Genius. Why, they even had the prerequisite Creepy Old House and Mysterious Butler!  
Her side of the agreement was to write an authorized biographical feature on Roy Mustang. A portrait in words, so to speak. “I don’t care if you damn him or praise him,” Ed had stipulated, “as long as you tell the truth. You’ve never actually talked with anybody you’ve raked over the coals. It might do you good to face them if you’re gonna make your living smearing people you’re too scared to interview.. I bet you don’t have the nerve to break bread with Roy Mustang, do you?”  
Ha! She’d show that twisted, evil little man. She’d open up the sordid can of worms that was the private life at Rose Hill, and---  
\--and somehow she could not stop looking into Roy’s eyes. There was none of his famed craftiness. No guile. He was relaxed and surprisingly cheerful in this old stable with its heavy oak timbers and swept stone floors, smelling of clean straw and sweet feed, the quiet punctuated by the sounds of contented horses and the occasional inquiring meow from the odd barn cat.  
She pointed towards a framed oil painting of a mustachioed military officer in dress uniform, one hand resting on the neck of a magnificent bay gelding. “Who’s that?”  
Mustang nodded, his expression showing pride and affection. “My father, Major Roy Mustang. He was a cavalry officer before qualifying as a State Alchemist, like his father before him. Dad would have preferred his portrait be hung up here so he could watch over the stables. My mother’s portrait is in the grand dining room. I’m told she was a very great lady.”  
“You don’t look like him.”  
“I suppose not.” He opened a tin of gingersnaps and passed it to her. She declined, discreetly patting her waistline in protest. “You don’t favor your father either if the pictures are anything to judge by. Did you ever meet him?”  
Her mouth dropped open. “How…how did you …?” She gathered herself and started again. “I don’t know anything—“  
“Not surprising.” He stirred his coffee idly, smiling. “Your mother had to work very hard to support you three children after he was jailed for scamming quite a number of war widows out of their pensions with his phony insurance con operations. I have it on good authority from Aunt Chris that she had him painted in tar, rolled in feathers and ridden out of town on a rail. She caught him cheating at cards---cheated her bouncer, to be specific. He also gave a dose of venereal disease to two of the girls in her house and one of the waiters. Big Cock Cockburn said that if Nixon Winchell ever showed his face in Central again Big Cock would cut out Nix’s lying tongue and eat it with pickle relish. More coffee, Maud?”  
###  
Dinner, it turned out, was served to her in her in her ground floor guest suite. “Master Maes and Miss Nina are out and about and His Excellency is concerned that you might have taken a chill in the stable. I have been instructed to bring you room service—and to inform you that you have the run of the house this evening—baring, of course, the family’s private quarters. I’m afraid the second floor is patrolled by my security staff---and you can’t get into the elevator without a key.” He lifted the lid of a silver dining tray. “I am hoping this will be to your liking?”  
It was the same sort of revolting repast that she would have eaten in any public venue where other people could see her. A modest bowl of clear soup, a plate of raw vegetables (rather prettily cut, she had to admit), a few bites of broiled chicken breast and a sparkling carafe of iced water.  
Her father probably ate bigger meals in prison, she thought angrily as she dismissed the butler. Damn, she’d kill for some chocolate! And if she had the run of the floor, surely she could locate the kitchen and bully someone into making her a sandwich…..  
###  
“…and I said ‘Maude, you’re full of maggots and you know it---  
Your soul’s a bed where worms queue up to breeeeeeeed---  
You don’t know what life’s for, Maude  
You’re rotten to the core, Maude  
And Maude agreeeeed…..”*

It was an old music hall song Ed was bellowing out and the truth of the lyrics made Roy bite his tongue. “Not funny, Edward. And you’re off key. As usual.”  
“Bullshit. You know that’s the first thing that went through your mind when you found out what her real name is. “ He tossed his coat on the bed, yawning and stretching impressively. “What’s for dinner?”  
“Nothing fancy. Our guest is dining on spa cuisine in the guest suite. I’ll have Ramsay bring us something in my office.”  
“Your office?” Ed gave him a strange look. “Why not at the kitchen table or up here?”  
###  
The aroma was about to drive her half mad with hunger. Eyes darting around to be sure she wasn’t being watched, Kelley slipped down the hall, following her nose. She could hear the clatter of silver and a rather obnoxious male voice thundering out orders. “You heard me. A platter of assorted sandwiches, pretzels and a bucket of cold beers. No, I said sandwiches, or is your tiny little mind not capable of understanding plurals?” There was a crash and a storm of cursing and what sounded like a very large knife being thrown several inches into the kitchen wall. “I SAID assorted, you idiots! Assorted as in ham, roast beef, roast turkey—“ Kelley began to salivate “—AND pretzels. AND a few bags of crisps. AND a bucket of ice and some sodding beers. AND a stick of fuckin’ butter along with the mustard and mayo and relish. You know the drill. Any leftovers, send ‘em back and we’ll have ‘em for snacks tonight. Now get the fuck going!”

She ducked into an alcove near the downstairs staff bathroom and saw Sebastian pushing out a small tea cart fairly sagging under a mountain of food. In addition to the sandwiches she saw a plate of cookies just before he clamped down the silvered domed lids and wheeled the feast up the hall. She tiptoed behind him at a safe distance. After all, she reckoned, if they had made enough to expect leftovers surely nobody would miss one or two sandwiches or a handful of cookies…or even a cold beer, if she could figure out a way to get the bottle cap off.

The Presidential Office was not half so huge as she expected. The old palace—once the Armstrong Estate, now the Hohenheim institute—had been big on grandeur as well as size. Rose Hill was so small by comparison that Samuelson had complained that it was “too small for a Presidential Palace—and too large for an insane asylum”. Soon as Mustang was out of office, he vowed, the Palace would relocate to new quarters. He was planning to take over the huge old Bradley estate, moving Mrs. Bradley and her idiot son to smaller quarters.  
Nobody was on guard, but she was so hungry she didn’t find this peculiar. Ducking in, she was about to lift the cover off the sandwich platter and help herself when the annoying bray of loud male laughter alerted that someone was coming up the hall. Frantic, she searched for a place to conceal herself and wound up dashing behind the dark green curtains that hung floor to ceiling and were thick enough to block out daylight. It was probably some of the cleaning staff, she told her wildly thumping heart. All she had to do was stand very, very still, and….  
###  
…and an hour and a half later she desperately needed to pee.  
It was all she could do to keep from swaying back and forth on her tiny pink shoes, trying to get her mind off the demands of her bladder. When the hell would those two put their goddamn books down and get the fuck out of here?? Mustang and Edward Elric had been the noisemakers in the hall. She had heard them speculate that she was probably enjoying a massage or facial, since they had sent for a masseuse and a manicurist to see to her needs this weekend. Her bladder ached too much for her to feel gratitude.  
And now, damn it, they had put down their reading material and had begun kissing.  
Deeply. She could see tongues, for god’s sake. She could hear moist sounds of mouths becoming preoccupied with one another. Hands were starting to move—above the waist, mind you , but it still made her feel very….  
Well….exactly how did it make her feel?  
With his hair freed from its ponytail, Edward Elric looked less like the Evil Genius and more like the Seductive Demon. As for Roy Mustang….there was something masterful and ruthless behind these preliminary caresses. She got the impression this was a man who was capable of, well, anything in bed. And worse, she had a bursting bladder and a ringside seat for the performance…..

…..TO BE CONTINUED….  
*Lyrics to “Rotten To The Core” by Muriel Lillie


	28. "BE OUR GUESTS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang, master manipulator, is pulling out all the stops to ensure that his unauthorized biographer has a ‘memorable’ weekend at his estate—and to make the weekend merrier, he’s invited the subject of her LAST unauthorized biography…Meanwhile the past comes back to haunt Selim Bradley, and Ed begins to wonder if he and Al are taking after Hohenheim in the one way they wanted to avoid…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 28: BE OUR GUESTS  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013  
  
(earlier that day….)  
    "Fuck me," Maes whispered, "I can see the top of my desk!"  
    "First time in years, I imagine," Collins quipped dryly. He ran a pristine white glove over   
Maes' workbench and inspected the fingertips. "Absolutely spotless.  I concede to your   
occasional brilliance. Giving Selim a job tidying up your lab was a worthy gamble. He's doing a   
splendid job."   
The young butler had cringed inwardly when Maes suggested that the older man work a   
few days in the lab assisting the young inventor by cleaning up and getting the workbench tools in   
order. Maes brightly observed that it would be good to get Selim out of the sheltered world of the   
Bradley estate and Maes would pay him a fair wage just to get some of the mad clutter under   
control. Maes had proved to be right, and indeed Selim seemed to show signs of improved   
memory and emotional stability, glowing with pride as he came to work each morning on the   
bicycle the young Elric had given him. Of course, Collins realized, it also meant that he and Maes   
would see a great deal more of each other now, since Collins escorted Selim to and from work on   
his own bike, which Maes had built for him years ago.  
Selim emerged from the storage closet bearing an armload of small leather cases. "I've   
found them, Maes! They were buried under a pile of magazines that had pictures of naked men—  
"  
"—fitness magazines," Maes cut Selim off quickly, scooping up the cases and laying   
them out on his desk. "They belong to my sister, for her drawing classes. Right! Now, I know I've   
got a box of film somewh—oh, thanks, Selim! Okay, I'm gonna show you how to load film into a   
camera."  
"All of them?"  
"Yeah."  
"Are these for taking pictures of naked men like the ones I found in the box with the   
cameras--"  
"Maes won't be taking any naked pictures." Collins shot Maes a sour look. "Not any time   
soon. If ever."      
    Maes didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "No, I need to take these up to   
Rose Hill before noon. Pops says he's having guests for the weekend…although what the hell he   
needs with a dozen and a half cameras and movie cameras, I haven't got a clue—"  
    From somewhere inside the closet, the trio heard the sound of glass smashing. "What   
the--?" Maes jumped out of his chair and dashed into the closet.  
    "I'll get the broom and dustpan," Selim offered. "Did something fall off the shelf because I   
moved things around?"  
 "Don't sweat it, Selim," Maes called over his shoulder." I had stuff shoved in there every   
which way. It's my own damn fault…aw, fuck it all! The goddamn negatives!!! Nitwit's gonna   
strangle me!"  
    "What negatives?" Collins asked.  
    "Ah, a bunch of glass negatives somebody reused to make the old greenhouse at Rose   
Hill. " Cutting himself on a broken shard, he growled under his breath, sucking on his bleeding   
finger, nodding for Selim to sweep away the mess and carry it out to the trash. "Some of them   
had visible images—"  
    "Pictures on glass?" Selim looked curious.  
    "Yeah, real old-timey. They didn't use film. They put a glass sheet covered with   
chemicals in a box camera and then exposed it to light, and---damn, Davy! Get me a bandage,   
This thing is bleeding like crazy!"  
    It took a few moments for the thoughts 'glass negatives from the greenhouse"  and 'Selim   
Bradley' to sink in and register. When they did, the color drained out of Maes Elric's face. "Ohhh   
fuck!"  
    Bounding past his lover, Maes raced out to the trash can behind the little laboratory. He   
saw Selim Bradley holding up a cracked glass negative to the sky and peering in wonder at what   
seemed to be his own face smiling back at him from the previous century….  
###  
    Roy had changed his mind about the sandwiches. Instead, he rang for Sebastian. "Send   
these out to the men with my compliments," he ordered, retrieving the bucket of beer bottles and,   
strangely, a small crock of butter. "See if Ramsay will bring us a couple of steaks."  
    "Very good sir!" Behind the curtain, Kelley Winchell felt an angry rumble in her stomach.   
Snitching a sandwich from a loaded platter would go unnoticed. Swiping a sirloin off the   
President's own plate would be damn near impossible. "Not the cookies too?" she mouthed in   
silent protest, as if her will alone could stop the butler from wheeling the fresh baked treats away.   
She was ravenous after all that rabbit food Sebastian had brought her, and between her growling   
stomach and her complaining bladder she was in a foul mood indeed.  
    It would take a little while for the steaks to be ready, the butler informed them. "No big   
deal," Elric answered cheerfully. "I guess we can find something to occupy ourselves with. Ring   
when you're on the way, okay?"  
    And that's when they put down their reading material and started…occupying   
themselves.  
    The President pulled the elastic from his lover's heavy blond mane, yanked off Edward's   
tie, and bit the younger man on the neck. It did some very strange things to Kelley Winchell's   
blood pressure.  Mustang murmured something—probably obscene—into Elric's ear. He was   
rewarded with a growl. "SHIT! That's…fucking unbelievable!"   
    A scarred hand slid inside the front of Elric's shirt and Mustang began running the tip of   
his tongue around the rim of his lover's ear. Whatever he was doing with his hand was making   
Elric squirm. "Yeah…whatever you want to do…" What the hell was he doing? Did homosexuals   
play with each other's nipples? Did men actually like that?  
    "You're not going anywhere."  Kelley began to sweat. She had no idea what was going on   
under Edward Elric's shirt but it was making the professor struggle and turn red in the face.   
Underneath her silk crepe blouse, her rubberized Shapely Girl  body slimmer and the padded cup   
of her brassiere, there was a sympathetic reaction at the thought of this virile, elegant man   
purring in his lover's ear and stroking his body in such a commanding manner. That reaction was   
interrupted by another pang from her bladder. Damn, she thought anxiously, if they don't leave   
before I get to the lavatory, my eyes will be as yellow as that Fullmetal Sonovabitch.  
    A loud roar of protest from her stomach. The men froze, then relaxed. Mustang chuckled.   
"Guess you're not the only thing that's got me hungry."  
    Golden eyes gleamed. "Oh yeah? Then eat me."  
    "Mmmmm…that might be an excellent suggestion…." Mustang pounced on his man and   
Kelley Winchell gnawed the last smears of lipstick off in pain and frustration….crossing her legs   
and praying for strength.  
###  
    "I'm stuck on the word puzzle. Check this, will you?" Roy had passed the Central Times   
over to Ed. Ed had given him a odd look. Mustang never needed help with word puzzles. He had   
glanced at the page and saw a message scribbled in Roy's neat penmanship:  
    . FOLLOW MY LEAD—AND SHUT UP.  
    Before Ed could argue, Roy had taken the paper from him, tossed aside and pulled the   
tie out of Ed's hair. Something in his lover's eyes warned him that something wasn't right but to   
play along. He had been about to ask where the hell security was when Mustang nipped his neck,   
licked his ear and whispered that Kelley Winchell was hiding behind the curtains. Ed was so   
furious he nearly shot off the couch. "SHIT! That's…fucking unbelievable!"  
    The tongue stabbed into his ear, which under normal circumstances would make him   
hard as a rock. "You're not going anywhere."  Roy sucked on his earlobe and pulled him closer. "I   
figured she would try something stupid. Let me handle this."  
    Fingertips strummed against his nipples. "Yeah…whatever you wanna do…"  
###  
    Mustang's hand moved to his lover's thigh. Then he lifted his face and smiled at the   
curtain. "The lavatory's right behind us, Maud." He gestured without looking to a closed door.   
    If her legs hadn't been crossed she would have peed herself.  She didn't move. "Please   
help yourself," he added. "I've just had the carpets cleaned."  
    Mustering as much dignity as she could manage, Kelley Winchell stepped out from   
behind the green brocade curtains and walked past the lovers without a word, heading straight for   
the lavatory, closing the door firmly behind her.  
    Ed swiveled around, staring at Roy in amazement. "How the hell did you know she had to   
take a piss?"  
    Roy looked smug. "That salad that came with her dinner had lots of fresh dandelion   
greens. There was parsley and saffron on the chicken she ate.  All natural diuretics. And of   
course, there was a full pot of coffee in her suite."  
    "Cunning bastard. I'm honestly impressed."  
    A familiar smirk played around the President's lips. "It's going to be a very, very long   
weekend for Miss Kelley Winchell…."  
###  
    A telephone.  "What the hell??"   
    The President of Amestris had a telephone installed on the wall beside the toilet, right   
within arm's reach. Why in blazes would the leader of the country want to talk to someone while   
perched on the commode---unless it was one of those sick homo things. Her earlier titillation   
vanished and she felt faintly queasy.   
    It took a bit of a struggle but she managed to tug her girdle down in the nick of time   
before she burst.  She was sweating and her hands were shaking. That damn Roy Mustang! How   
long did he know I was hiding in there? Could he arrest me for being in there? No—I'll tell him I   
got lost and scared. I'll…hmmm…maybe if I cry…?  
    Curiosity got the better of her. After all, aside from the out-of-bounds upstairs bedroom,   
you couldn't get much more private than the Presidential bathroom, now, could you?  
    There was a stack of well-worn magazines, she noticed, and grabbed them out of the   
brass basket on the floor near her feet, expecting to find masturbatory literature, but the only   
pictures of cocks in the pile were hanging off stallions—they were old copies of Horsebreeder's   
Journal.   
    Rearranging her clothing, Kelley pulled the flush chain and looked around. There were   
some toiletries on the shelf above the sink: razor, shaving mug, a boar-bristle shaving brush. A   
small carafe of some cinnamony mouthwash and a matching cup to rinse with. A toothbrush that   
needed replacing. A small bottle with a hand inked label from a well-known toiletries shop. She   
pulled the stopper and sniffed and decided that, while Mustang might be morally bankrupt, at   
least he smelled good.  
 Directly in front of the toilet, to the right of the shower stall was a closet. She jiggled the   
handle. It opened noiselessly. She shivered at the thought of what might be hidden inside.  
    Seems the only thing Roy Mustang had in the closet were his spare clothes. A dress   
uniform and a formal dark suit, both carefully zipped into garment bags. A change of casual   
clothes, plain but of the very best fabrics. A riding jacket and breeches. High military boots, dress   
shoes, loafers and riding boots, all polished to perfection.  All of Sherman Lehrer's  jokes about   
Mustang's closet in songs like "Hold My Purse While I Save The World" were nothing more than   
crude humor.  
    And then she saw the whip….no, just a riding crop, and while he may have used it on the   
bare buttocks of Edward Elric, it was equally as likely that he used it for its avowed purpose.   
Besides, Edward was just damn mean enough that if Mustang tried to whip him Edward would   
probably break it over Mustang's head.  
    Disappointed, she was about to shut the closet quietly when she noticed a small door   
hidden in the back of the closet, bearing a small sign that said "Staff Only".  With a man with   
Mustang's particularly leering turn of mind, 'staff' could definitely mean more than one thing.   
Rumors had it that the President's butler made frequent trips to a certain Spenser's Emporium, a   
private shop catering to the intimate needs of discriminating citizens. It was a dildo shop, but one   
with classical music, imported carpets, antique display cabinets and rubber thingamajigs that   
were rumored to be so realistic ladies were tempted to put condoms on them, fearing they might   
get pregnant from the damned things. And it was known that Mustang and Elric were often apart   
for months on end every year. That secret door probably concealed an unholy assortment of   
things that buzzed and squirmed and who knew what else. Why, if the President had a secret   
stash of perverse playthings….  
    She couldn't resist. She gently eased the door open, not making a sound.  
    Something went "click!"  
    BRRRRRRINGGGGGGG  
    "GAHHH!!" She jumped a foot and clutched at her heart, and If she hadn't just emptied   
her bladder she'd have pissed herself.  
    The phone beside the toilet continued to ring.   
    A voice from the other side of the door called out, "Would you get that, Maud?"  
    Trembling, she snatched the receiver off the wall. "H…hel…hello??"  
    "Ah. Miss Winchell."  That cool, unflappable voice of the son of a bitch who had wheeled   
away all the sandwiches. "While you're snooping through the supply cupboard, do check to see if   
there's enough paper in there, would you? His Excellency never informs me until he's almost   
out…"  
###  
     Emerging with as much poise as possible, she found Mustang and Elric tearing into a   
couple of rare sirloins. The aroma was tantalizing and her stomach clamored loudly for a bite.   
"Ah. Maud. Was that Sebastian nagging about the toilet paper again? Sorry. He does that. Hope   
you don't mind—we're having our supper late."  
    "Yeah, it's all the bad stuff---steak, baked potatoes with sour cream and bacon—"  
    "—and butter. Lots of butter," Mustang added with peculiar emphasis.  
    "And a typical dessert from hell with about five million calories and enough chocolate to   
kill ya," Ed finished. "But, you know, we respect you too much to make you eat all this shit. Elycia   
says you're on a really strict diet and all—"  
    "—so we thought we'd make this a spa weekend for your enjoyment," Mustang   
concluded. "So let me introduce you to our other house guests this weekend."  
    The door to the Presidential Office burst open. There was a flash of pink sparkles and the   
figures that stood in the doorway blocked out the light from the hall.  
    "GENERAL MUSTANG! SO WE MEET AGAIN! MY JOY AT THIS REUNION CAUSES   
MY MAGNIFICENT MUSCLES TO RIPPLE WITH UNRESTRAINED HAPPINESS!"  
    Edward grinned. "Long time no see, Alex."  
    Mustang beamed at Kelley. "Meet the director of the President's Council on Physical   
Fitness, Alex Louis Armstrong."  
    Something that looked like a mountain in a dress grunted beside Alex. Roy rose and   
bowed in its direction. "And this is his older sister Strongine Armstrong. She is the director of the   
Briggs Mountain Sanatorium—one of the leading proponents of health reform in the nation. When   
Alex told her you would be our guest this weekend, she was determined to come down and share   
the benefits of 'biologic living' with you."  
    "INDEED! WHY, MY SISTER IS AN ANGEL OF WELLNESS!" Alex boomed cheerily.   
"BIOLOGIC LIVING IS BRILLIANT COMPOSITE PHYSIOLOGIC METHOD WHICH INCLUDES   
HYDROTHERAPY, ELECTROTHERAPY, MASSAGE, PHYSICAL CULTURE, COLD AIR   
CURES—"  
    "Bowels," Strongine grunted. "Purification of the bowels of all toxins—"  
    "---VEGETARIANISM AND HEALTH EDUCATION!" He dabbed at his eyes with a   
handkerchief the size of a pillow case. "HER GLORIOUS COMPASSION MAKES ME WEEP!"  
    The mountain in the dress lumbered over, dwarfing the author. "People pay thousands of   
cens to spend a weekend at 'The 'San', as they call it," Roy told her. "Why, by the time Alex   
Armstrong's sister is done with you, you'll be a different woman altogether!"  
    Strongine stared at Kelley for a long, silent moment. Then she lifted the author, slung her   
over one massive shoulder and carried Kelley away.   
    Roy cracked open a beer for each of them. "I take it your father wasn't amused by Muscle   
Men And Madwomen, eh?"  
    "Neither was my mother or Strongine or Amue. It made my little sister Catherine cry."  
    "And the Major General?"  
    "Something about sending her to General Raven, along with your old valet, Claude."  
    "She has enough bodies under concrete in that bunker of hers," Roy touched his beer   
bottle to his old comrade's. "This is better. Kill her with kindness."  
    "And yogurt enemas," Ed added. "You wouldn't believe the stories I've heard about those   
Northern health retreats.  They go nuts over the nozzles up your ass and high fiber, and---"  
    Roy couldn't believe his ears. "Strongine doesn't really do that sort of thing at The San,,   
does she, Alex?"  
    Ed lifted his eyebrows at the President. "A hundred cens says she will."  
    "Well…probably not. But" he added hopefully "Miss Winchell doesn't know that, does   
she?"  
      
###  
    "Mmmm. Nice out here tonight." Ed stretched his arms above his head until his back   
popped and then  bent down to examine a half-budded branch on a rare azalea bush from Xing.   
"Think the screams have died down yet?"  
    "Depends on how thorough that 'deep tissue massage' is.  I let Alex talk me into one of   
Strongine's therapeutic massage treatments right after you left last time and I swear at one point I   
felt her knuckles go straight through my back and out through my spleen."  
    Ed snorted with laughter and the two of the strolled out into the mist of the early spring   
night. Their security guards observed from a discreet distance, knowing by the President's   
demeanor that he intended to have some private time with his fiancée. "So? What's on your   
mind?"    There was no use denying it. They had been together too long to successfully hide   
anything for long from one another. "It's not that idiot in the helmet hair getting tied into a knot by   
Armstrong's sister. And don't tell me that asshole Samuelson's got you on the ropes. I don't   
fucking believe that."  
    Roy strolled over to an ancient, spreading oak tree, one that was barely an acorn when   
Xerxes fell and Amestris was born. His fingers explored the craggy bark, crumbling bits of spicy   
scented moss. "I'm fifty years old, Ed."  
    "And?"  
\    "I know the date on my birth certificate and it doesn't coincide with my face or my body,   
does it? Hell, I know men in their thirties and forties who talk about losing their drive, getting   
older, putting on weight….I don't know…I can run the obstacle course without stopping for breath.   
I can outpace men half my age on the running track." He held out his arms. "We've been together   
for fifteen years, Ed. We should have mellowed. We should have settled down. Instead, I can   
barely keep my hands off you. It's hell when you're gone, and when you come back I want to eat   
you alive and nail you to the mattress. I…I don't know how to explain it." His arms closed around   
his lover's hips, pulling him close. "Believe me, I'm not complaining."  
    "Neither am I." Ed's arms snaked around Roy's waist, pressing their groins together.   
"Feel that? I could pound tent stakes with that thing. I go off on the road and something trips my   
triggers and I start thinking about you and I end up spraining my wrists and humping the pillows   
every damn night. I get home and…it's….damn. You know?"  
    "Yeah." Cheek to cheek, Roy pulled the wings of his black overcoat around them both.   
Edward unwound the knitted scarf from around his neck and retied it so it encircled them both.   
"Al's discreet but he's got the same thing going, only he's making himself crazy over two women   
while he's got a half-dozen others in his bed and a hundred more chasing him."  
    "Izumi?"  
    "Geez, like I want to know about Teacher's sex life? I don't wanna know and she'd kill me   
if I asked. And maybe she's dyeing her hair, but she hasn't slowed down one damn bit since---"  
    "—that day. The Promised Day." Roy sighed deeply and rested his forehead against   
Ed's. "Your dad was a sacrifice the first time, in Xerxes. That was—what—1464?"  
    Ed was silent for a long time. "Yeah," he sighed at last. "I didn't want to think about this   
shit for a long time. But, I mean, he didn't age. I was sixteen. Me and Al matured like normal, you   
know? And you have a couple of grey hairs—probably not more than a dozen, but I can see 'em.   
Little changes around the corners of your eyes. I'm not sayin' we're…you know, like Dad…but we   
got something."  
    "Yeah. Think so."  Roy's face was unreadable in the faint moonlight. "You okay with this?"  
    "We got a choice?"  
    "Not really, no."  
    "Then when the time comes, we tell the kids. And if it gets hard to hide and we aren't   
aging fast enough, we move on. You, me, Al….Teacher if she wants to go with us." His lips   
grazed Roy's chin. "We still don't know much about the other side of the ocean. A lot I haven't   
seen—not even Al has seen it all. We might not have anything going on other than some kind of   
boost we got from being sacrifices. It might just be coincidence.  I honestly don't know how much   
time we have.  So let's make it count, okay?"  
    Roy grinned in the shadows. "Why do you think I'm marrying you?"      
    "All the presents, asshole!" Ed punched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Cause you hope   
Winry will give us a new toaster." A strong hand toyed with Roy's zipper. "How much privacy we   
got?"  
    Roy clapped his hands. There was a muted crimson flash and the folds of Roy's coat   
encircled Ed completely. "Some, but not much."  
    "Enough."  Buttons slipped out of buttonholes. Zippers slid down and clothing was   
arranged out of the way. "This could get messy," Ed warned.  
    "No big deal. I can clean us up with alchemy."  
    "Thanks but no thanks. I don't wanna risk losing my dick just because you're too cheap to   
pay for dry cleaning."  
    A snort of laughter. "You're no fun."  
    Something hard and welcome pressed against him. "Wanna bet?"  
    It was lazy and slow, rubbing against one another, pressed together as they stood in the   
mist, wrapped in the folds of Roy's overcoat. Havoc would have called it 'dry humping' but after a   
few minutes there was nothing dry about it. They were grinning at each other, biting back groans,   
not wanting to draw any more attention from the security detail than needed.  If Kelley Winchell   
had been able to stagger to her window she would have seen the President and his lover   
wrapped in a close embrace, kissing voraciously. Had they been able to make it to the barn they   
would have hurried up the ladder to the hayloft and Edward would have cheerfully offered himself   
over a stack of hay bales, growling out a challenge to see which of them would outlast the other.   
    But there had been things that needed to be said—things that they had both privately   
brooded over for years. The words had come out without pain, and Edward had not shouted or   
laughed in denial.  Truth was flowing between them. There was simply no need to hide anything   
anymore and it felt damn good—as good as this clasping of bodies under a pale Equinox moon   
when everything was fresh and life tasted rich and sweet, like honey on the tongue.  
    A hand squeezed. Roy bucked into it, reaching down to lace his fingers with Edward's,   
bringing their cocks together, the swollen flesh generously slicked by those pearly drops of   
arousal that normally Ed would be eager to catch on his tongue. Edward bit down hard on Roy's   
bare chest and shivered, a low keen rising in his throat. "Shhhhh…."  Roy's own breaths were so   
ragged that he was certain that once Ed's grip and the heat and smell of him pushed Roy beyond   
the point of return he would be hard pressed not to fling back his head and howl at the moon like   
a madman.  
    Panting furiously, Ed's pace became frantic, losing control as the fingers of Roy's other   
hand slipped around and down and in in in gloriously in oh god HARDER yes. The fingers   
scissored and stroked , bending Ed's body so he could reach just the right spot that made his   
pulse hammer in his ears, wetting his lover's belly and chest. A moment later Edward dropped to   
his knees in the damp grass and swallowed and swallowed and GOD he was hitting the back of   
his lover's throat and Edward was sucking hard, pulling in every drop.  
      
    Roy curled up against Ed's back, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Their clothing was   
stuffed in the hamper and they were freshly showered and curled up under a quilt that Elycia had   
made them two Solstices ago.   
    "Did you hear that?"  
    "What?"  
    "Somebody's sneaking around in the hall." Sure enough there was the tell-tale squeak of   
a loose floorboard Roy refused to have repaired, calling it the Early Warning Signal.   
    Roy reached for the bedroom phone and spoke very quietly. "Sebastian. I believe our   
guest is having a difficult time getting to sleep tonight. Please ring Miss Armstrong to assist. The   
last thing we want is for Miss Winchell to think we are not concerned for her health and well-  
being."  
    Roy clapped his hand over Ed's mouth, stifling his own chuckles. The acoustics were   
perfect. Every cautious step in the hall echoed loud and clear.  
    So did the booming voice of Strongine Armstrong.   
    " MISS WINCHELL. AS I INFORMED YOU EARLIER THIS EVENING, INSOMNIA,"  she   
pronounced, "IS PROOF POSITIVE OF AUTO-INTOXICATION FROM STIMULANTS SUCH AS   
COFFEE AND ALCOHOL. ONCE THE LOWER INTESTINE IS PURGED OF THESE TOXINS, A   
PERSON WILL SLEEP AS PEACEFULLY AS A CHILD IN THE ROSY GLOW OF BIOLOGICAL   
HEALTH!"  
    "What the hell—get away from me!"  
    "ALEX! GO DOWN TO THE KITCHEN AND GET ME TWO QUARTS OF FRESH   
YOGURT!"  
    "What??!? I can't eat two quarts of yogurt?"  
    Ed poked Roy in the ribs. "I didn't hear any mention of her actually eating two quarts of   
yogurt, did you?"  
    "Well…no…"  
    "Pay up, you jerk!"  
  
  
…TO BE CONTINUED…..      
  



	29. "GOTCHA"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy’s game of cat-and-mouse with his unauthorized biographer comes to a startling end as a hack journalist is given a front row seat to history in the making…

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 29: "GOTCHA"  
By The Binary Alchemist, 2013  
  
    "Master Selim! We will be stopping by the President's home this morning. Master Maes   
will be giving us a ride to the lab in his car." Collins thoughtfully did not add, 'which, hopefully, will   
not blow up with us inside it.'  While Maes had remarkable dexterity wiring electronic circuitry or   
assembling delicate items like watches and cameras and radios, when it came to motorcars he   
was an absolute cock-up.  
    "Collins? Those glass pictures. That was me, wasn't it?" The young butler chewed his lip   
anxiously. He didn't want to lie to Selim, but on the other hand the contents of those glass   
negatives from the Father's military research team was strictly classified. But before he could   
come up with the answer that might do the least amount of harm, Selim answered his own   
question. "That was me when  I was that monster, isn't it?"  
    "Yes." There was a heavy sigh of relief. "And you are absolutely not a monster now, nor   
will you ever be a monster again."  
    "I know."  Amazing. Not long ago Selim might have gone into hysterics and required   
sedation. Today he was accepting this information matter-of-factly and it would probably spare his   
life. "I was good. I was born good. The Father made me bad. Then Mr. Edward helped make me   
good again. I…." he struggled with a new word, "intend…that's the right word?"  
    'Absolutely."  
    "I intend never ever to be a monster again." His face lit up. "Now, can I go pet the horsies   
when we get to Maes' house?"  
###  
    Her evening with Strongine Armstrong seemed like a cross between hostile interrogation   
and some sort of religious revival, the female body builder exhorting the benefits of 'biologic living'   
while pounding and twisting Kelley's back and lecturing her sternly about the evils of coffee, sugar   
and the rich desserts she loved to indulge in when nobody was watching.  
    She was given a hot herbal  brew to drink that tasted like spoiled grapefruit steeped with   
cockroaches. This, it was explained, would help cleanse Kelley's liver and boost her metabolism.   
Strongine left her alone, still hungry and wrapped in blankets to help her 'sweat out the toxins'.  
    Once the house got quiet, she made a break for it. She knew where the kitchen was,   
damn it—and if there was any more of that chocolate dessert Elric had been stuffing his face with,   
she would have it if she had to stomp on every guard and Armstrong in her spike heels.   
Especially if she had to stomp on every guard and Armstrong.  
    The ornate elevator door to the private second floor was open. It smelled of furniture   
polish and there was a note that said 'closed for cleaning'.  The key was still in the lift. When she   
stepped inside, she heard a faint 'click!'  as she turned the key and stepped out into the second   
floor hallway.   
    No guards, although she could hear voices retreating around a corridor. Pulling a small   
camera out of her skirt pocket, she crept softly down the hall, dismayed as the old floorboards   
creaked under her footsteps…  
    …and found the Abominable Armstrongs waiting for her, stepping out of what appeared   
to be some sort of bathing room at the end of the hall.   
    " MISS WINCHELL. AS I INFORMED YOU EARLIER THIS EVENING, INSOMNIA,"  she   
pronounced, "IS PROOF POSITIVE OF AUTO-INTOXICATION FROM STIMULANTS SUCH AS   
COFFEE AND ALCOHOL. ONCE THE LOWER INTESTINE IS PURGED OF THESE TOXINS, A   
PERSON WILL SLEEP AS PEACEFULLY AS A CHILD IN THE ROSY GLOW OF BIOLOGICAL   
HEALTH!"  
    "What the hell—get away from me!"  
  
    All right—Kelley had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that she'd actually slept well after   
submitting to The Two Quart Cure--but if Strongine dared to serve her yogurt at breakfast, that   
Armstrong freak would have to have the bowl—and the spoon—surgically removed from her   
colon.  
      
 "SEE HOW SPLENDIDLY EFFECTIVE MY SISTER'S HOLISTIC THERAPIES ARE??"   
Alex Armstrong bellowed as she sat down—very carefully—at the breakfast table at Rose Hill. "I   
CONGRATULATE YOU, KELLEY WINCHELL ON YOUR LOSS OF FIVE POUNDS SINCE   
YOUR ARRIVAL!"  
    Kelley winced. "Don't mention it. Please."   
    A small, slim figure entered the dining room, weighted down by a huge stack of books.   
"Buongiorno, la mia famiglia!"  Spying the massive bodybuilder seated at the table she put her   
books on the sideboard and hurried over to give him a hug. "Uncle Alex! I'm so glad to see you!   
Have you come for the wedding?" she asked hopefully.  
    At the mention of Roy and Ed's forthcoming nuptials, Armstrong began to weep   
dramatically. "AH YES! HOW COULD I NOT STAND AS WITNESS FOR THE PRECIOUS   
UNION OF TWO SOULS AS THEY JOIN HANDS BEFORE THEIR FRIENDS AND LOVED   
ONES AND BEGIN THEIR JOYFUL JOURNEY DOWN LIFE'S---"  
    "—and General Olivier? Will she be here?"  
    "Ah! Unfortunately, " he continued a tad lower, she has pressing duties at Fort Briggs. I   
am attending with my third-eldest sister Strongine—and it seems we came just in the nick of time.   
Your father's guest, Kelley Winchell, has just become the newest convert to the CULT OF   
BIOLOGIC WELLNESS!  JUST LOOK AT HOW HER EYES SPARKLE THIS MORNING."  
    Nina gave the hack writer a cool appraising stare. "So do the eyes of cobras."   
    "Hey, show some respect  for our guest, Nitwit!" A tall figure leaned against the doorway   
in a patched white lab coat and motorcycle boots, a pair of brass framed goggles on the top of his   
head. "We're all friends here, right??"  
    Alex and Nina suddenly became very preoccupied with their coffee.  Swinging a chair   
around backwards, the energetic young man plopped down beside Kelley, a huge, friendly grin on   
his expressive face. "Let's let bygones be bygones, eh? I'm Maes Elric—y'know, as in chapter 15   
of your galley proofs of Fire and Vice—'a singularly precocious and foul-mouthed little devil who   
did thousands of cens worth of damage to the Presidential Palace'?" Kelley's mouth dropped   
open but before she could protest, Maes cheerfully waved her off. "Oh, come on, Maud—I can   
call you Maud, right?---you think the Presidential press corps wouldn't get their hands on one of   
the review copies you sent out to the media? And for the record," he reached for the coffeepot, "it   
was TENS of thousands, if you count that antique Xingese vase the day we met—and trust me,   
I've paid it back tenfold setting up the in-house surveillance system." Unbuttoning his lab coat, he   
pulled out a black and white photograph and handed it to her. It showed Kelley rummaging   
through the President's bathroom closet. "Seriously, the camera is your friend, Maud. You got   
great cheekbones. Oh, and this one—I used the wide-angle lens." It showed her pocketing the   
keys to the private elevator last night, a camera in her other hand. "This, though is my favorite.   
Kind of difficult getting the right exposure here, since the lighting was so low—since the office   
was closed—but it should reproduce pretty damn nicely in newsprint."  
    It was a little out of focus but clear enough for blackmail purposes: Kelley Winchell,   
seated on President Mustang's chair, apparently reaching to pull open the drawers of Roy's desk.    
"Guess you were looking for his chocolate stash, huh?"  
    It was actually a picture of Kelley seated on the toilet, reaching out to tug at the door of   
the bathroom closet, but had been artfully edited in the darkroom. "Took me all night to get it   
right," Maes congratulated himself. "Had to use the same technique they used in your books   
about the Armstrongs and Fuhrer Grumman, making it look like you had real press credentials to   
gain access to Fort Briggs and Central HQ. If you had any real brains, Maud, you'd have gone to   
work for Sebastian and Special Ops."  
 The "singularly precocious and foul-mouthed little devil' snagged a sweet roll and bit into   
it blissfully, as if the awkward silence that followed his bombshell had nothing to do with him. Alex   
Louis Armstrong turned cold, pale eyes towards the writer, while Nina adjusted her glasses, as of   
patiently waiting for an explanation. Maes piled crisp bacon onto his plate and emptied the coffee   
pot. "Hey, Sebastian? Can we get another pot of coffee, please?"      
    "I've got it"  
    Maes glanced at the doorway and his face lit up. "Hey! When did you get here?"  
    Collins bowed to the guests at the table. "We've just arrived. The young master is out at   
the paddock, giving some carrots to the horses."   
    "Collins, you remember Alex Armstrong, don't you? Collins is helping out with Mrs.   
Bradley these days---but I'm campaigning to bring him back to Rose Hill---"  
    Napkin to her face, Kelley Winchell rose to her feet. "Ex-excuse me…I'm feeling a   
little…unwell."  
    "Unwell??" Armstrong looked concerned. "I'll send for Strongine—"  
    "Th—that's…that's all right—"  
    Collins stepped close to assist. "Allow me to help….YOU???"  
###  
    Selim was surprised when the President himself came out to greet him. "My son tells me   
you are doing very well at your new position, Selim."  
    The young man ducked his head modestly. "My mother's proud of me. I'm learning a lot."  
    "No doubt."  Mustang reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves embroidered   
with the salamander array.  "Selim, I have guests for breakfast. They would very much like to   
meet you…"  
###  
    "This is my old friend Alex. You've met before but you may not remember him."  
    Selim put out his hand gravely. "If I was bad when we met, I'm sorry."  
    Armstrong's shaven head jerked back in surprise. He glanced at Roy who nodded. "Yes,   
well…the pleasure is all mine, Selim." He turned to Strongine. "My older sister."  
    "You look pale. Have you been ill?"  
    Selim thought about it. "Yes I have but I am getting better, Collins says."  
    Roy turned and gestured towards Kelley Winchell, who was back in her chair, the hands   
of Sebastian Corby resting on her shoulders as a gentle reminder that it was not in her best   
interest to think of running anywhere. "Collins tells me you've met our friend Maud before. She's   
come to your house to visit you, hasn't she?"  
###  
    "What are you going to do to me?"  
    The President adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white Pyrotex gloves. "Well, for starters,   
Maud…" He snapped is fingers and the candelabra on the table in front of her burst into brilliants,   
all candles now blazing. "I am going to remind myself that there is a difference between stupidity   
and criminal behavior." He folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, looking at her   
thoughtfully. "I expect journalists to go to great lengths to get a story. And without a free press, we   
have no freedom. We would be right back in the days of the Bradley regime, where every word   
was carefully polished and presented to give the people the most glowing impression of our   
Commander in Chief." His dark eyes burned into hers. "You have no idea how many brave men   
and women—and alchemists-- died to win you the freedom to tell your nasty little interpretations   
of the truth. "  
    She was angry now. "Oh, let's not mince words, Mustang. Your son says you've seen the   
proofs of my book. You know I was going to blow the lid off that whole scandal---Lab 5,  all those   
alchemic monsters—breaking your own laws to serve the alchemists—for…for…immortality!!"  
    "Really." One corner of his mouth lifted in faint smirk. "And I'm guessing you got your   
hands on some notes and records that tell you I am somehow to blame for all of this?"  
    She sniffed. 'A journalist never reveals his or her sources. You'll have to drag me to   
court. Go ahead, Mustang-throw me in jail."  
    "I could. I should, for all the suffering you caused Selim Bradley with your sneaking in and   
interrogating him for information about what happened the day of the solar eclipse and the attack   
on Central by Bradley's coconspirators." Roy looked disgusted. "Frankly, you don't deserve the   
publicity. And Selim says he just wants you to leave him alone. You should be thankful that he   
came out of his ordeal with a kind and forgiving nature. " He rose, gesturing for Colonel Hawkeye   
to bring him a folder marked 'EYES ONLY'. "It was a shame that you severed your relationship   
with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons. They hold the rights to your manuscript of Fire and   
Vice. I'm sure it would have made you a fortune—oh, let me be clear: it doesn't matter to me in   
the least if you speculate about my morals and motives. But when it comes to matters of the   
security of the State of Amestris, you damn well better have your facts straight. Since you are   
clearly motivated by greed and not by patriotism, you'll have a chance to find out the real truth   
about what happened."   
    Taking a single document from the EYES ONLY file, he placed it on the desk in front of   
her.  
    "You see, thanks to the protests provoked by your collaboration with Mr. Archer and   
Donal Samuelson's grand-standing, alchemists have been attacked in isolated incidents across   
the country. One alchemist has been killed—one with political influence in Milos and Creta. The   
Amestrian Parliament has at long last decided to open up the files on the Dahlia incident—and   
Lab 5---and the attack on Central. As senior ranking State Alchemist and Commander in Chief, I   
have offered my full cooperation.  
    "And in turn…I have been subpoenaed. I will appear before the State Court two weeks   
after my wedding—and one month before the election." His smile was very ironic indeed. "Seems   
I am to answer for my crimes after all."  
    He turned to leave, then paused, not looking back at her. "Edward told you that the   
equivalent exchange for hitting him was to require you to tell the truth. Sebastian will provide you   
with credentials. Collins will provide you with escort. You will have a front row seat in the press   
gallery—a front row seat to history, Maud. The truth—and nothing but the truth---is finally coming   
out about Ishbal---about the Promised Day. About everything you know to be factual about   
history.  
    "I just hope you have the stomach for it. Good day."  
  
…TO BE CONTINUED…..  
      
  



	30. "FOR HUGHES...."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We tell the truth to protect the future and to honor those who died to bring that truth into the light of day. As his allies and family rally around him, President Roy Mustang addresses the world, pledging to tell the truth about Ishbal and the Promised Day before the Parliament….

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 30: "FOR YOU, HUGHES…"  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013  
  
    "Colonel Hawkeye! Jean! You gotta let me in!! It's important!"  
    Somebody was hammering on the door before Riza Hawkeye had finished her first cup of   
coffee. That was nearly as risky as  sneaking up on her in a dark alley. She frowned at Havoc.   
"You get it."  
    Checking that his side arm was loaded, Jean Havoc cautiously opened the door and was   
immediately knocked down by a speeding blonde bombshell.  
    A wild-eyed Gladys Turlough grabbed Hawkeye by the sleeves of her dressing gown.   
"Have you seen the papers??" she shouted. "It's all over the front page!" Her eyes were teary and   
her mascara was starting to run. "Oh, we gotta help him! We just gotta help him!" She shoved the   
morning paper into Hawkeye's hands.   
    The President's right hand woman read the headline and felt sick inside, sick enough that   
she didn't even consider firing a few rounds at the feet of their unexpected visitor to speed her out   
the door….      
###  
"How you gonna play this?" Ed wanted to know, straightening Roy's tie as he dressed before   
heading out to the steps of Parliament to address the media about the morning's headlines.  
    "As briefly as possible."  His attire was a simple three piece dark suit that Carson had   
picked out. A power suit—but not so much power that you intimidate, Roy had been advised.   
"Short and to the point….rather like you—OWWW!!" Ed had leaned forward and nipped him   
sharply on the lower lip as a warning. "—used to be."  
###  
The head of his press corps was banging on his hotel room door before breakfast,   
shouting to be let in. "It's in the papers," he gasped. "Mustang's been subpoenaed by Parliament!   
He'll making a statement this morning, but the word on the street is that he's not gonna fight it.   
You've won, sir! You've won!"  
    It took a few minutes for the words to chisel though Samuelson's hangover. Roy   
Mustang---answering for Ishbal? For Lab Five and the Promised Day?   
    He placed a few calls. He listened to his pundits.  He should have been elated.  
    So why did he feel so uneasy? Wasn't this what he wanted to happen, years ago when   
he saw that tall, grim figure stepping out of the smoke, reeking of the roasting corpses he had just   
left behind him  in the smoldering ruins of the Ishballan ghettos of Dahlia? Hadn't this been the   
point of calling him out in the election, to see the Flame Alchemist answer at last to the charges of   
genocide history had laid against him?  Wasn't this part of the reason he'd decided to run—to end   
the corruption he had seen in the Amestrian state military for as long as he could remember?  
  
    Samuelson had backers—well, one in particular. During an interview two years ago he   
had casually remarked that perhaps he, Donal Samuelson, ought to run for office if Mustang's   
Democracy Initiative and free elections ever came to pass. "You do and I'll back you," came the   
scornful retort. "Let's see if you can give that greenhorn a run for his money. If he wants to stay in   
that office, let him earn it." When the amendment passed and the qualifications published for   
presidential candidates, Samuelson had met each one. A phone call was made and after a great   
deal of derisive laughter, a check was deposited into Samuelson's campaign war chest---a check   
so large that the bank had called the donor to make sure that the stratospheric number of zeroes   
was not a misprint.  
    It paid for radio commercials, billboards, flyers, buttons and ads in the newspapers and   
magazines. It put gas in his car, paid for train tickets and hotels and meals for his staff and for   
large hosted lunches and banquets on the road. It paid men to make picket signs and march in   
peaceful protest against the current government—and paid for beers at the pub after they were   
done for the day.  
    It did not, his backer sternly reminded him, pay for acts of violence or public vandalism.   
"Call off the dogs, Donal. One week"   
    But there was too much momentum. Even though he had changed his message to point   
out that alchemy had its peaceful applications—medicine, construction, science, invention—and   
that his only objection was using alchemy for war---it was too little, too late. He was not like a   
famed Ishballan cleric who stopped an insurrection single-handedly be vowing to fast until either   
the violence ended or he died. Out of love for the old cleric, those red-eyed bastards lay their   
arms down and made peace. If Samuelson threatened a fast, all he would do was drop a few   
pounds. The disgruntled may have liked his message but they didn't love him. The only person he   
knew of that might be able to pull off such a threat would be the very man Samuelson wanted to   
oust from the presidency.  
    There had been an alchemy book-burning in the town square in Pendleton—oh, sparsely   
attended, to be sure, and quickly extinguished. That had been last night and made the front page   
of the Central Times below the fold. Hopefully his backer wouldn't count this as 'violence'. If the   
plug was pulled on his supply of campaign cash his candidacy might fizzle out in the last crucial   
weeks before the vote….  
###  
          
    They called it the VOG box—short for Voice Of God. Of course, Maes had invented it.   
Using a wire recorder inside the portable box and a small radio and speakers, it had a series of   
buttons on the front labeled "VOG" and "Ruffles and Flourishes". Kain connected it to the p.a.   
system and hit the VOG button:  
    "…Ladies and Gentlemen, The President of Amestris"  
    He pressed the R/F button and a crystal-clear quadruple military fanfare rang out as   
Mustang approached the podium…  
  
  
    "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, distinguished members of Parliament and to all   
the citizens of Amestris and its territories…  
    "I'm aware that this morning's headlines have raised concerns all over the country—and I   
believe that to be a good thing.  A nation that considers and asks questions is a nation that is less   
likely to be led around blindly by its leadership.  
    "This was not the case at the beginning of this century, or for much of the century that   
preceded it. For decades, the people of Amestris were treated…well, to be blunt….like children.   
Your leaders patted you on the head, told you 'everything's fine, go back to sleep' and that was   
the end of the discussion.   
    "This ended in the spring of 1915. There is not one single citizen in the nation who is old   
enough to remember who does not recall what occurred that day, because it affected every man,   
woman and child. A faction in the military had attempted to misuse alchemy in a manner that   
endangered the lives of the entire population. Lives were lost—including that of Fuhrer Bradley—  
and there was catastrophic damage done to Central Command.   
    "Under the experienced leadership of General Grumman,  the factions in the military that   
were responsible for these actions were brought to justice and under his guidance our nation   
recovered—a testimony to the strength and spirit of the Amestrian people.  
    "But the story goes deeper than that. Recent books and discussions during the   
presidential campaign have brought the events of the past into sharp focus once again. Those of   
us who served in the ranks as soldiers and State Alchemists have been called to account for the   
aggressions of the past—presumably, in hopes that our bloody history will not repeat itself.   
    "There have also been scattered attacks on alchemists and teachers of alchemy—few   
but violent. And while it appears to be the work of a specific organized group with their own   
agenda, it cannot be excused. While it is right and fitting that the actions of the past be brought to   
light in national court, let me be quick to remind you of one of the most important truths I have   
ever learned in my fifty years:   
    "Violence begets violence. Rage is a sharp weapon that turns on the people who use it.   
    "You are entitled to answers. You will not gain those answers through violence—those   
who pursue that course will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. As for those who seek   
those answers sincerely, I give you my word that to the best of my ability, I will see that you get   
them. Bear in mind that you may not like those answers, anymore than I liked them as a young   
army officer—but it is time to seek the deeper truth about our own history, and if we find those   
answers disturbing or shameful then we as a nation will find the courage and strength to move   
forward and change our nation—and ourselves—for the better.  
    "To this end I will cooperate fully with the Parliament in its investigation. I will do this   
because it is  the right thing to do, because you deserve my honesty—and to honor my friends   
and comrades who lost their lives searching for the same answers you seek today.  
    "Thank you….and good day."  
      
###  
    Gracia wasn't surprised to find him alone in the cemetery, his bodyguards a respectful   
distance away.   
    Saying nothing, she touched his arm, and that arm slid around her shoulders in a   
comforting embrace. How far we've come, she considered. How much we hurt each other once   
upon a time.    
    Looking down she noted the sheaf of pristine white lilies resting on her husband's   
grave—and two red roses. One for her—and one for himself. Years ago that gesture would have   
wounded her. Now she felt comforted that she and Roy Mustang could both stand before the   
grave of Maes Hughes and say, 'we loved you".   
    "I…I don't know why I came here," Roy sighed.  
    "Because you saw him in the Gate. You know he's watching." She leaned against his   
side. "You're doing this for him, aren't you? At least in part?"  
    "I owe it to him. Maes died for the sake of the truth, in a day and time when the leader of   
our country thought no more about killing a good man for telling the truth than crushing an   
insect—because in his mind, that's all we were to him. And we've been painting him as a hero   
and martyr to freedom. How do yo think the people will cope with the idea that Bradley wasn't   
even human—that the smiling, fatherly Fuhrer regarded them as nothing more than a resource to   
exploited?" Turning, he placed his hands on her slim shoulders. "Gracia…you realize this story is   
too fantastic to be believed, right? Mad gods, chimeras—an undead army made by alchemy….it's   
insane. Even I have trouble believing what I missed before my sight was restored. I have no idea   
what the hell is going to happen."  
    She smiled up at him and her confidence shook him more than a little. "Think of what   
Maes would have done—what he would have said---and say it. And," her eyes misted over,   
"when it gets hard, just say to yourself, 'I'll do it for you, Hughes. I'll tell them what you can't'. "  
###  
  
The courtiers addressed  him as 'the Ninth Hereditary Prince to the Chrysanthemum Throne of   
the Xingese Empire". Behind his back, they referred to him as The Smart One.   
    Emperor Ling Yao had the imperial scribes enter his ninth son's name into the family   
scrolls as Huo Ma Sheng Yao. His begetting was the result of a political alliance with the Nihon   
Empire. Hikari had been the 23rd of his fifty-odd wives, but she was pretty, intelligent and her son   
had demonstrated a good head for numbers, details and administration. Ling had the boy   
groomed for a place in the royal court, and now at nineteen he was content to run after his   
honorable father taking dictation, making phone calls and dealing with all the tedious little details   
of command that Ling had no time for.   
    He was buried in a mountain of paperwork over a trade agreement with the Ishballan   
Free State when the phone rang, half concealed under a tall stack of alchehestry books, since   
Sheng was studying for his examinations at the Collegium under Lady Master Mei Chang.  
    "Sheng-sama? It's Alphonse Elric."  
    Sheng Yao straightened his glasses and his face broke into a sunny grin. "Uncle   
Alphonse! I was just making the travel arrangements for Father to fly to Central for the wedding—  
it hasn't been called off, has it?"  
    "No—but can you set up a conference call? Something has come up—"  
    "—about the Promised day?"  
    Al whistled. "How did you guess that?"  
    There was a warm chuckle on the other side of the phone. "Uncle, our spies are as good   
as Mustang's. You know we run that restaurant three blocks from the Capital. And tell Miss Ruby   
that if Uncle Edward doesn't pay up on his tab Shao Tsu is going to spit in his noodles next time   
Uncle Ed orders take out. Now, " Sheng grabbed his notebook, "tell me how we can help…."  
###  
    Christmas Mustang drew a deep drag on the fifteenth cigarette of the day. "Well, this   
sucks," she growled into the phone. "But we knew it was gonna happen. Tell me what you need,   
Roy-boy"  
###  
    "Even…even if I agree to leave my clinic….we can't tell them the truth."  
    "Doctor Marcoh, if you would just hear me out—"  
    "Ed, can you convince me that it is going to make a difference? This is not going to bring   
back the dead of Ishbal, or the soldiers turned into chimeras, or—"  
    "---Mustang needs you…and besides, we both want you there at the wedding."  
    There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. "Well….."  
###  
    Roy looked uncomfortable. "Mrs, Bradley—I never intended---"  
    "—to what, Mr. President? To call upon me—me, who owes her very life to you, and the   
life of my son!—when you are facing such a challenge?"  
    Mustang shook his head. "Ma'am…there may be information about…up to this point,   
there has been a deliberate effort to turn blame away from King Bradley—"  
    "---to keep the nation united. I know that. I understand.  And I also understand that years   
have passed and we are strong enough now, I think, to face the truth." Anna Bradley looked   
determined.   
    "But…what about Selim?"  
    Her smile was full of a confidence Mustang himself did not share. "Ask him".  
###  
    "Alex?"  
    Armstrong  nodded once. "General Hughes would have agreed. I can't speak for my   
sister, but I'll contact her tonight."  
    "Havoc?"  
    The major grinned around his cigarette. "Maybe they won't want to know all the details   
about my little ice cream truck full of machine guns….but yeah. Goes without sayin'. I'm in."  
    "Breda?"  
    "Got you covered, sir."  
    "Fury? Falman?"  
    "Ready, sir!"  
    "Colonel Hawkeye?"      
    "You don't have to ask…."  
###  
    "I don't imagine that most couples have to worry about testifying before the highest court   
in the nation right after their wedding."  
    "Shit, I hope not." Ed tugged off his glasses and slid under the cool sheets, snapping off   
the bedside lamp.  
    "Everybody's been called or contacted?"  
    "Yeah. And except for the Ice Queen up north, they're all on board. And since they'll all   
need some place to stay, Sebastian's busting his nuts getting sleeping arrangements set up. Far   
as anybody knows, they're all coming for the wedding."  
    "I'd like to thing this was very well managed on my part."  
    "You would, you smug bastard. Did you know you were going to be subpoenaed?"  
    Roy folded his arms behind his head. "I had a hunch—and it was a good one.   
Samuelson's been provoking a lot of people, and the book from Winchell and Archer sure as hell   
added fuel to the fire."  
    Ed leaned up on one elbow, a hand idly stroking his lover's chest. "What's up with Maud   
the Muckraker?"  
    Roy grinned in the dark. "Oddly subdued. She'll be at the wedding, of course."  
    "Aw, fuck now!" Ed's fist slammed into the pillow." Goddamn it, Roy—what the fuck did   
you have to do that for?"  
    "Take it easy, Ed. I've got someone to keep an eye on her…."  
###  
    "Mistah Alphonse…y'know I'd do anything for you---and anything for Mistah Mustang---"  
    "---and Roy wouldn't ask this of you if he didn't have absolute confidence in you, Gladys.   
Just….you know…stick close and keep an eye on Miss Winchell at the wedding. Make sure she   
stays out of trouble, okay?" His voice dropped into a persuasive register. "Use your acting talent."  
    Havoc nodded, as did a reticent looking Colonel Hawkeye.   
    The Ice Cream Blonde sighed dramatically. "Well….if it will help Mistah Mustang…I'm in.   
But," she lifted a manicured nail in warning, " if Kelley Winchell starts any shit, I'm gonna rip her   
tits off!"  
  
  
…TO BE CONTINUED…..  
  



	31. "PRE WEDDING JITTERS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Roy don’t believe in pre-wedding jinxes, but it seems as if the whole universe is throwing curve balls in the direction of their wedding, including dirty tricks played by their caterer, Ling Yao’s take over of the Presidential Palace, a protest march outside the front gates, a very sad day for Jean Havoc, and the Battle of the Blondes—Kelley Winchell, Roy’s biographer, up against Alphonse Elric and film bombshell Gladys Turlough

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 31: PRE WEDDING JITTERS  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 31: PRE WEDDING JITTERS  
By The Binary Alchemist 2012  
  
    "Isn't this supposed to be bad luck and all that shit? Seeing each other the day before the   
wedding?""  
    "Mmmm… probably not. I could break a few mirrors and be sure if you like." The hands   
that were wrapped around Roy's chest smacked him lightly. "Ed, you know I don't believe in all   
that crap."  
    "Oh yeah? Then what do you believe in?"  
    "Well, I believe you are going to be the future Mr. Mustang in about---" Roy glanced at his   
watch—" let's see—about 28 hours, and the house is in total chaos, and if I didn't get us the hell   
out of there  I probably would have been provoked into barbecuing our wedding planners  with the   
snap of my fingers…and the chances of anybody actually chasing us down on horseback are   
fairly slim, don't you think?"  
    "We went riding just to get away from the commotion?"  
    "Mmmhmm."  
    "On one horse….on the Ishballan double saddle?" Ed frowned, although Roy couldn't see   
his face, sitting in the forward position on the imported tack that had been used for quite a   
number of obscene gyrations on horseback over the past decade and a half. "Stupid to waste   
such a good opportunity."  
    "Don't be an idiot, Ed. If I had planned an erotic diversion, you would be sitting in front, it   
would be dark and we would be wearing certain garments modified for…how shall I put this?   
Ease of access----WHOAH!!!" A hand shot under his belt and into his shorts.  
    "Let's play a game." There was a wicked snicker in his ear. "You wanna steer the horse?   
Have at it. However, I am better at flying an aircraft, and right now, I have my hand on the   
joystick…which means I'm the pilot here and I'm in control. How'dja like them apples, old man?"  
###  
    When Alphonse rounded the corner, he spotted a madman waving a cleaver and   
screaming himself purple in front of a parked delivery van ringed with press photographers.  
    "That don't look good," Gladys Turlough pointed out. She was dressed to kill---and she   
was halfway hoping she'd get her chance. Alphonse had sweet-talked her into meeting with   
Kelley Winchell sometime today, and in hindsight regretted he hadn't asked her to leave her six   
inch spiked heels at home. In a fight, one of her pumps could be as deadly as Lust's fingertips.  
    "Crap. That's Chef Ramsay!" Alphonse turned to her and dropped his voice to a low and   
persuasive register. "Think you can charm the most famous chef in Amestris?"  
      
  
    Every zoom lens swerved away from the chef and in the direction of the Ice Cream   
Blonde in her pink angora sweater. "Yoo hoo!" She waved and squealed. "Oh my gosh…is that   
Robert Ramsay?? The man who cooks for all them kings and presidents and stars?? Ohhhh, I'm   
soooo excited!!!" She drew a deep breath, dangerously straining the buttons on her satin blouse.   
"Why, you're a celebrity!"  She scampered out to the van, D--cups leading the way. "I just love a   
man who can cook—don't you fellas?" She winked at the press. "He really knows how to handle a   
hot piece of---"  
    "MISS TURLOUGH!" Alphonse quickly interrupted, "I'm sorry I haven't introduced you to   
Chef Ramsay before. So….ah…Chef…..what seems to be the problem?"  
    "PROBLEM???" Ramsay swung around, the edge of his cleaver missing Gladys by   
inches. "I'll tell you what the motherfeckin' problem is, Sunny Jim! It's that goddamn Dago   
importer, that bastard Bacalla! Said he was gonna send lamb for the wedding luncheon, right?   
RIGHT??  Fresh from Resembool, he said, right? Well," his free hand grabbed the back door on   
the van, "I know Edward Elric don't like his meat over done. You think THIS is fuckin' rare   
enough??!??"  
    He yanked the door open. A fuzzy head poked out. "Beehhhhhehhhhhhh!!: Cooing with   
delight, Gladys rushed forward to pet the bleating creature while Ramsay sunk his cleaver in a   
nearby tree curses burning the air. "Son of a bitch! How the hell am I gonna find time to butcher   
all these bastards---"  
    "Oh no! You aren't gonna kill these little babies, are you??" Gladys protested. "They're so   
adorable!"  
    "Adorable my ass—they're dinner---fuck me, I gotta get these fuckers to the offloaded   
and---"  
    "—and turned loose in the horse paddock," Al cut in nervously. "Obviously, there's been   
some sort of mistake..or…hahaha…a practical joke from an old friend. Besides, these are full   
grown sheep—they've still got a year's growth of fleece on them--and you can't make rack of   
lamb with something this old---" The jaws on the faces surrounding Alphonse dropped to the   
ground with a near-audible 'thud!".  He cleared his throat and began again. "A Presidential   
Pardon, I think, might be in order. Ah…." He gestured helplessly to the van drivers. "You guys   
sort of…move 'em down to the paddock---"  
    There was a sharp "ahem!" somewhere behind him from Sebastian. "---after Major Havoc   
takes you through a security check, that is…."  
    'Hey! What the fuck am I going to do about feeding' the goddamn wedding guests? "   
Ramsay demanded.  
    Gladys hoisted her chest a full five inches and winked at the chef. "Let 'em eat cake."  
###  
    "He's here." Alphonse informed Sheska and Ruby.  
    "Emperor Ling? Oh god—he'll eat us out of house and home—"  
    "—he'll borrow the President's car and take off into town and run up tabs in the best   
restaurants in town—"  
    "—not to mention he'll marry three or four women during the dessert course---"  
    "—the Tsar is never this much trouble!"  
    "---the Tsar of Drachma!" Sheska was fuming now. "You want to know what that filthy old   
man sent them as a wedding gift? A solid gold enameled…receptacle. For…afterwards."   
    "Afterwards? " Ruby looked puzzled. Sheska was so embarrassed she couldn't go on.  
    "It's for used…ah…protection." Al stammered. "All the best palaces have them in the   
honeymoon suites. It's traditional….flush something like that down a Drachman toilet and you'll   
have a bigger disaster than they had at the Sun King's palace when Ed's hair stopped up the   
shower drain and we had sewage up to our ankles in the halls."  
    Ruby did the mental math and then shook her head. "They better give it to you, Al. Those   
two probably don't use 'em and you, on the other hand, own a shared interest in a rubber tree   
plantation---"  
    "Be nice, Ruby!"  
    "At least the Aerugoans sent all those doves to be released during the wedding, and a   
case of King Claudio's best wine."  
    "I know," Al sighed. "Ed's thinking about having them grilled with rosemary. And Roy says   
that they'll probably poop all over the guests." He glanced at his watch. "Thank goodness Nina's   
so good at managing people. Master Mei Chang and Dr. Petrovna Lobachevsky are having   
sherry with Nina, Winry, Gracia and Izumi in the sun room."  
    "Uh oh!" Ruby snorted. "Peta Lobachevsky is the only woman that scares me worse than   
Izumi Curtis. The only thing worse than a genius is a crackpot girl genius---and a carrot top to   
boot! I can't stand those bug-eye glasses of hers."  
    "Her father is the head of Stoltovgrad University and an old friend of Ed's---"  
    "—and he wants to get his mitts on Maes as a son in law—"  
    "Ruby." Al's frown "Enough. It's nearly three—go pick up Dr. Marcoh at the airfield—he's   
arriving with Dr. Chen. Sheska? I'm sure Sheng Yao could use some help keeping the Emperor   
out of trouble. See what you can do."  
    "Right, Al."  
###  
    The gear for the honeymoon—the real honeymoon—was in Maes' workshop.  The word   
in the press was that Roy and Edward were heading up to The Eagle's Nest, an elegantly   
appointed hunting lodge in the North built for former Fuhrer Bradley. In truth, the newlyweds were   
heading up to a rustic cabin in the woods near one of their old favorite camping sites. While   
presidential decoys headed off in the limo with empty suitcases in the trunk, Roy and Ed would be   
climbing into an old army jeep with bedrolls and fishing gear and a big sack of books—they could   
endure no food or water better than no reading material—and heading west. It would be a brief   
respite of privacy in the middle of the mayhem of the Parliamentary hearing and the election, but   
it was just what both men craved; a few days of  peace and quiet, fishing, reading and sex—and   
not in that particular order.  
    There would be guards in the woods—that was understood. Roy's old friend Charlie,   
along with Havoc and Breda would be tenting out of sight but close enough to provide firepower   
should the lovers be disturbed by any intruders. They were aware there was probably going to be   
some alfresco sex and skinny dipping in the creek, but the trio had been around the couple for too   
many years to be fazed by anything they might see or hear.  
    Havoc had stopped by to drop off his back pack and rucksack when he saw someone   
was already adding their gear to the load out---  
    It was Riza Hawkeye.  
    "Aw…shit."  
    She turned around, lowering her bedroll and rifle to the pile but everything in her   
expression told him not to push it.   
    'Not pushing it', however, was not Havoc. "You aren't going." She didn't answer. 'You are   
not on the roster."  
    "I am now."  
    His head dropped to his chest. He sighed, puffing out a great cloud of cigarette smoke.   
"On Mustang's honeymoon….you've invited yourself to Mustang's….honeymoon…unbelievable."      
    She drew herself up, giving him a look that would have intimidated anyone except a man   
who had loved her and shared her bed for years. "It's my responsibility—"  
    He lifted a hand to cut her off." "Do what you want," he told her wearily. "I'm done."  
    "Jean---"  
    There was pity in his eyes but she was too blind to see it. "It's Havoc, Colonel." He   
snapped to a salute. "Ma'am."  
###  
    "Hiya, Toots!"  
    Somebody was banging on her hair dryer. Kelley Winchell opened her eyes and all she   
could see was a pair of D-cups that were pointed like angora-covered funnels about an arm's   
length from her face. She flipped up the hard shell of the dryer and her eyes followed the sweater   
up to the face. When she saw who it was, she slammed the dryer bonnet back down over her   
rollers.   
    The knuckles rapped again, a little harder this time. Kelley ignored it.  "Magazine." She   
commanded, holding out a newly manicured hand. The newest issue of Movie Mirror was placed   
carefully in her hand by the easily intimidated manicure girl so as not to smear the lacquer that   
had just been applied to Kelley's nails.   
    "Hey! I wanna talk to you, Kelley Winchell!"  
    The hand reached out again. "Chocolate."  
    A confection was laid on her palm, wrapped in bright foil. Kelley sniffed it critically.   
"Amedei?"  
    The manicurist forced herself to smile. "It's…Perugina. It's a Baci. It means 'kiss'. In   
honor of the President's wedding. It's still Aerugoan," she added anxiously. "They are very good,   
Miss Winchell."  
    "It's not from Amedei, it's crap!"   
 The blue and silver chocolate kiss pinged off the back wall. Gladys Turlough looked   
down at the writer in disgust. "Cow!" She turned to the manicurist. "How much do you get paid to   
put up with her bullshit?" The manicurist ducked her head and mumbled something pitifully low.   
Gladys dug into her handbag and handed the astonished girl a 50,000 cens note. "G'wan, honey,"   
the actress told her kindly. "Nobody talks to a workin' girl like that. Not around me. I'll square it   
with your boss. Get goin'. Take the afternoon off—go buy a dress or somethin'."  
Reaching down, Gladys yanked out the power plug. The dryer went silent. Before Kelley   
Winchell could shout, Gladys grabbed Kelley's right hand, one thumb poised just above Kelley's   
fingertips. "You and me are gonna talk, Toots. Come along quiet---or….I'm gonna…smear….your   
polish."  
"You wouldn't dare."  
"All ten fingers---and---" a silver nail file now glinted in Gladys' hand and hovered near the   
writer's knee. "—if you don't move your ass before I count to ten, I'm gonna poke a hole in your   
nylons."  
###  
"Idiots."  
Dr. Marcoh shook his head as the black presidential staff car rolled through the front   
gates of Rose Hill. The front part of the property had been designated as public parkland during   
Roy's administration. The private residence was accessed through an ornate wrought-iron gate   
nearly fifteen feet tall set into a serpentine wall of aged brick—as beautiful as it was practical,   
because the ivy that crawled over the bricks was a cover for razor wire and spikes and trip wires   
that set off alarms all over the estate. It was Russell Tringham's apprentices  job to tend the ivy   
keep it looking elegant without getting themselves stabbed or sliced in the process. Russell had   
also used his plant alchemy to enhance certain toxins in the ivy so that it would itch and burn   
dramatically when brushed against the skin. Thankfully, an antidote for the rash was kept at the   
guardhouse where Havoc ran grounds security.  
Ruby saw a few dozen rough looking men outside the gate, waving placards. "Amestrian   
Populists—OUR TIME HAS COME!" "Government BY THE PEOPLE!" "NO MORE FUHRERS!"  
"Alchemyk Weapons Kill Babies"—Ruby shook her head over the misspelling---"FLAMING   
ALCHEMIST—GO HOME!"  
    "He is home, moron."  She glanced at the rear view mirror. Marcoh looked alarmed. "Fuck   
'em, Doc. Bunch of nutters. Once Samuelson gets his ass handed to him in the elections, they'll   
be gone. It'll be over."  
    Tim Marcoh shook his head. "Will they? I wonder…."  
    Dr. Chen agreed. "One must never underestimate the power of foolish people in small   
groups…."  
    The man with the misspelled sign dashed towards the car. "MUSTANG KILLS BABIES!   
BABY KILLER! BABY KILLER!"  
    Ruby flipped the man off. "Fuck you, mac. Get out of the way!" She pounded the horn   
and the guards along the perimeter hurried to assist. "Get this clown off my car!" she snarled.   
    In the back seat, Tim Marcoh bowed his head. Would death be the only true peace he   
would ever find---would the horrors of Ishbal never be laid to rest?  
    A perceptive Dr. Chen laid his hand comfortingly on Marcoh's shoulder. "A clear   
conscience is the strongest armor against the arrows of the past. The good you have done—the   
lives you have saved, the ills you have cured—and the remorse in your deepest heart---these   
have made you much loved and a gift to this world, my friend. And you are only a failure if you   
allow the past to consume you. Keep your eyes on the days ahead, my friend, and let us turn our   
minds towards this happy occasion."  
###  
    The security briefing occurred before the assembled guests were gathered in the dining   
room for afternoon tea. The last guest to arrive was Mrs. Bradley, leaning on Selim's arm, a   
smiling Maes welcoming them in. Collins, making his bow to the guests, reported immediately to   
Sebastian as Major Domo of the estate. "Sir."  
    "Collins. I will be assigning the security details as soon as Colonel Hawkeye and the   
military security team arrive. I am quite sure I do not have to remind you that you will be working   
very, very hard this weekend. I expect you to be on form, on time, in uniform and prepared for any   
emergency."  
    Collins bowed to his superior. "With His Excellency the Emperor and His Excellency the   
President in residence, I am yours to command, Sir."  
    "Very good. Allow me to introduce you to our esteemed counterpart from the Empire of   
Xing. This is Lan Fan, the Emperor's own bodyguard. A formidable master of the martial arts and   
as dedicated to her service as Colonel Hawkeye is to protecting President Mustang."  
    Ran Fan simply glared at Sebastian for a moment before answering. "More." She pulled a   
curiously carved mask over her face and stood impassively to one side as they waited for the   
Colonel.  
  
    She arrived a full half hour late, "Uncharacteristic," Sebastian observed to Ran Fan.   
"Colonel Hawkeye, is everything secure? Any issues?"  
    "Protesters at the main gate," she answered curtly. "They've been dealt with."  
    Havoc and Charlie followed after her. "An unnecessary show of force," Charlie added.   
Hawkeye was about to bark out a sharp reprimand when Charlie pointed at his credentials. "I'm in   
Ops, Colonel. Civilian. So if you don't like what I have to say—"  
    "Ladies…gentlemen….if you please!" Sebastian clapped his hands sharply. "This is a   
cooperative effort between the State Military security, the Imperial Guard and Special Ops. May I   
emphasize the word cooperation. And may I also stress that it is desirable for us to have as few   
incidents as possible that could be deemed 'front page news'.  Now then—Collins, pass these   
out, please—as Major Domo of the estate, I have your assignments for the wedding day.   
Collins—I am placing you over the family and friends, Ran Fan—your customary place is with the   
Emperor and his retinue. Havoc—the President and the wedding party. I will oversee the house.   
Dr. Knox will coordinate with the medical staff—I don't want to see any worse medical issue than   
an upset stomach or hangover but we will be prepared for anything. Ramsay will have all foods   
tasted—Charlie will make sure no one tampers with the food. I daresay Charlie will also have to   
avail himself of Dr. Knox's team to treat his indigestion—we have quite a large luncheon planned.   
We will also have to see about getting those surplus sheep moved out of the paddock and   
transferred to the petting zoo.. Colonel Hawkeye—your team will survey the grounds---"  
    "My place is with the President."  
    "---the grounds, the stables and the gates. Next—"  
    "My place," Hawkeye emphasized, is with the President."  
    "Goddamn it," Havoc muttered. "Give it up and give Roy some space to breathe."  
    "You're out of line, Major!"  
    Sebastian clapped his hands sharply for order. "For the sake of peace, Colonel, you and   
Major Havoc may swap assignments—"  
    Havoc opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. "Whatever." Privately he made up his   
mind to speak to Alphonse the first chance he could. Maybe he could talk some sense into Riza   
before she hurt herself any further, mooning over the man she couldn't win and pushing away the   
man who was now only half-certain he could love her forever.  
###  
    "If I pay you, will you go away?" Kelley poked angrily at a half-eaten chicken salad   
sandwich that Gladys had ordered for her.   
    "Why are you so goddamn mean?"  
    "Because I'm good at it. And being nice doesn't pay the rent. Now," she checked her nails   
for any smudges, "why are you bothering me?"  
    "I'm your date."  
    A bite of chicken went down sideways and Kelley hastily gulped down some water. She   
coughed for a minute or two, gesturing for Gladys to refrain from slapping her on the back. Once   
she got her breath back, she informed the actress that she hadn't quite heard her correctly.   
"You're finding me a date?"  
    "I AM your date, Toots."  
    "I don't like other women."  
    Gladys smiled. "You don't like anybody, so there shouldn't be a problem. See, you're not   
exactly friends of the family…but Mistah President says he wants you to be there for some damn   
reason---and he says bring your notebook."  
    This was preposterous. The idea---that Roy Mustang would even suggest such an   
outrageous thing…."Out of the question. I will go with the press corp."  
    "You ain't the press, Toots. You're a blood suckin' leech and you tried to hurt a really   
good man. Mistah Alphonse says if I can't persuade you, he can send Colonel Hawkeye over to   
give you a ride."  
    Alphonse Elric…. The memory of that motorcycle ride they took together still made her   
knees faintly weak." Alphonse put you up to this?"  
    "Yeah." Her eyes sparkled. "He's a swell guy. And I'm goin' because I'm gonna sing for   
entertainment. So here's the deal: go as my date or that tight-ass Colonel Hawkeye escorts you—  
and she's nowhere as much fun as I am. Didn't I just buy you lunch? Didn't I pay for your damn   
manicure? I know how to treat a lady---I even know how to treat a lady-in-name-only, if youse   
excuse the term." She wrinkled her nose. "How else you gonna get in the VIP tent with all the   
swells if I don't get you in? It ain't like you gotta kiss me, fer Leto's sake. You ain't my type."  
    "Why I never---"  
    "Don't knock it 'til you try it, Doll. You have no idea how much fun you can have in bed   
with a good gal-pal, a pound of chocolate, some champagne and," she waggled two fingers, "the   
right kind of manicure!"  
###  
    "Where do you think you're going?"  
    Ed shrugged, gathering up his dressing gown, tooth brush and a change of clothing. "Ah,   
you know Gracia and Winry. All that wedding superstition. They say I gotta sleep somewhere else   
tonight. It's bad luck for us to see each other after midnight."  
    Roy lifted one eyebrow. "Have you considered exactly how many guests we have under   
our roof tonight? Between our friends and Ling's entourage and the extra security teams, there   
isn't a room to spare in the whole house."  
    "I figured I'd bunk with Maes."  
    "Who's probably bunking with Collins….or Peta….or both."  
    "Okay, then. I 'll stay with Al."  
    "Do you know for sure he's not sharing his bed with Gladys Turlough."  
    "Al?" Ed chuckled. "Not with that one."  
    "She's female," Roy began ticking off items with his fingers. "She's got a pulse, and she   
probably owns more sex toys than we do."  
    "She gave Havoc the clap, you forget."  
    "And you gave Al the condom receiver from Tsar Dimitri."  
    Ed shook his head in exasperation. "Okay, fine. I'll stay here."  
    "I knew you'd come around." His fiancée offered him a smug grin. "Now get under the   
covers."  
    "Well….I guess its okay if there's no fucking."  
    Roy looked innocent. "I wouldn't dream of jinxing our wedding day by taking advantage of   
you."  
    "Good."  
    Ed snapped off the light.   
    A few minutes later, he noticed a soft, rhythmic sound. A skin-on-skin sound he was   
embarrassingly familiar with. He slapped the pillow over his ears. "Go to sleep, goddamn it."  
    "Mmmmmmm….yeah…..hnnnnnggggg!"  
    "Quit it, you jerk!"  
    "Did you say 'jerk'?" The slap-slap cadence grew louder. "Was that a suggestion?"  
    A fist in the dark socked Roy on the shoulder. "It was an order. Knock it off!"  
    "Take it easy, Ed. I'm a big boy. I can hold out till tomorrow…if you can…"  
    Cursing into the mattress, Ed squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep, knowing that the   
man beside him was naked, hard and laughing at him—the last of which was what got to him   
more than anything else.  
    He tossed. He turned. He mentally repeated the periodic table of elements.  
    Abruptly, he rolled over and grabbed his lover's cock. His tongue was about to flick down   
for a taste when a voice in the dark stopped him. "It's after midnight, Ed. You want to give us bad   
luck?"  
    "GODDAMNIT!!!!!"  
  
….TO BE CONTINUED….  
      
      
  



	32. A PRESIDENTIAL WEDDING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After fifteen years together, Edward Elric and President Roy Mustang stand before their friends and family (and Emperor Ling Yao and his umpteenth wife and ninth son) to tie the knot…

CHAPTER 32: A PRESIDENTIAL WEDDING  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013  
  
    I'm not doing this because of any goddamn superstition. I'm doing this so Winry will shut   
up and quit nagging me about seeing Roy on my wedding day. Gathering up his clothing and   
shoes, Ed slipped quietly out of the master bedroom and down the hall to get dressed in the   
Nihonese bath, relatively certain that nobody was using or abusing the room at four o'clock in the   
morning.  
    He was wrong.  
    "ED!!!" His Excellency the Emperor of Xing was in the tub, wreathed in steam and waving   
what looked like a half-gnawed pork chop in one hand. The other hand was fondling the bountiful   
bare breast of a woman Ed did not immediately recognize through the haze. "Felicitations on your   
wedding day---and meet my newest wife!"  
    "Hiya, Mistah Edward!"  
    "GLADYS?!???"  
###  
    Winry poured Ed another cup of coffee in the dining room, set up as a breakfast buffet   
owing to the large number of house guests. She patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Does   
anything Ling does surprise you? Really, Ed!"  
    "My eyes….my eyes…" her ex-husband groaned dramatically. "Ling…and Gladys   
Turlough….naked…eating  pork chops—in MY bath!! And the crazy son of a bitch says he   
married her?"  
    "Just for the weekend," Mei Chang pointed out, adding honey to her morning tea. "He can   
do that, you know. Marriage and divorce is a simple thing if you are the Emperor. In return, Miss   
Turlough can claim the title of Princess and if he gets a child with her---"  
    Ed stuck his fingers in his ears. "Not hearing this---definitely not hearing this!"  
    Glancing over Ed's head, Mei Chang tugged urgently at his sleeve. "Roy's coming! Quick,   
you have to leave now!"  
    "Huh?"  
    "Get moving! It is very bad luck for a bride to be seen---" Realizing her gaffe, the   
alkahestry master slapped her hands over her mouth. "I—I mean—"  
    "Bride." Edward spat out the word as if he had bitten into something nasty.   
"Did…you…say…BRIDE, Mei?" He shot poisonous looks at everyone in the dining room—and   
half the people immediately began focusing on shoveling down their breakfasts. "Am I to   
understand," his voice was beginning to rise in volume and intensity, "that people are somehow   
thinking I am somehow the…the---"  
    "—underdog." Al suggested.  
    "—whatever!" Ed growled, "—in this relationship??" His coffee cup hit the table with a   
loud bang. "IF you're gonna go there—and you damn well better not—you better have some good   
reason to make an assumption like that."  
    "I'd say," Ruby purred maliciously, "it should be based on who was on top last time you   
guys did it."  
    Every mouth in the room dropped open.   
    Ed gave her a poisonous smile of triumph. "Well….if last night is anything to judge---you   
can throw the white veil over the goddam vib—never mind!" Turning on Winry, he added, "and no,   
we did not fuck last night…technically. You were the one running around all 'ooh, Ed! You don't   
want bad luck on your wedding day!' So---no harm, no foul…AND EVERYBODY JUST SHUT   
THE HELL UP, ALL RIGHT??"  
###  
    "You've got it?"  
    "Right here."  
 Maes nearly tore the zipper out of the tailor's delivery bag and frantically inspected each   
garment, worried that if everything wasn't just so, Roy would say to hell with it and change into his   
dress uniform.   
    He sighed noisily in relief. "Perfect. Just damn perfect."  
    Collins lifted an eyebrow. "Of course you take credit for this."  
    "Everything depends on this suit's perfection." Maes' hand swept over the deep lapis   
waistcoat, crisply tailored to flatter Roy's trim figure, peeking out from the dark charcoal cutaway   
coat that managed to look both presidential and in the height of fashion. A white wing-collar shirt   
would be set off with a black silk cravat. Stick pin and cufflinks in lapis made for him by Nina,   
engraved with his array in gold. A single red rose as a boutonnière, which Collins artfully attached   
to the left hand lapel, and---  
    "Do you have any idea what time it is?"      
    The President of Amestris stepped out of the bathroom clad in nothing but a fresh shave,   
a very skimpy towel around his hips and a scowl on his handsome face that should have warned   
Maes that the Rose Hill fire insurance premiums were about to go up. A silver pocket watch   
snapped shut in his hand and Collins took a discreet step backwards. He would proudly take a   
bullet for his lover but had no intention of being incinerated.  
    Maes just grinned. "You got plenty of time, Pops. It's only a quarter to nine.  Collins and I   
will get you dressed and then I'll jump in the shower while you have some coffee—oh, and Dad is   
over in the guest wing. Nina and Uncle Al are helping him get ready. Annnnd—" he dug into his   
pocket, "---before you ask---got the ring right here. And, " another flourish, "here's the pen to sign   
the registry. I've also got a flask of brandy if you need a shot of courage, and Collins has a pistol   
if you decide you just can't go through with it."  
    Roy frowned. "My waistcoat and cravat were pearl grey. What the hell is this?"  
    "Nina's veto." A sunny grin countered Roy's irritation. "C'mon, she picked it out for you.   
She said the grey was too severe. I think it's pretty sharp, personally. And it goes well with the tie   
stickpin and cufflinks she made you."  
    Roy snatched the suit out of his stepson's hands. "Fine. Whatever." He stalked into the   
bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Maes gave Collins a thumbs-up. "Get the beast   
some coffee before he tears our heads off. You got my suit? I'll dress in the bathroom."  
    "And ruin a perfectly starched linen suit? Not on your life. You can dress in here."  
    "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the younger man leered.  
    Collins gave him a look of wry exasperation. "If your masculine endowment was in   
comparable size to your ego, Maes Elric, you'd trip over it."  
    That earned Collins a playful punch to the shoulder. "You wish."  
###  
    "This ain't no 'small family wedding', Gracia."  A reporter from Central Times waved her   
down as she arrived with Elycia, looking lovely in a soft buttercup yellow, perfect for early spring.   
"We've got the bloody emperor of Xing here, for goodness sake! We've got military brass and   
scientists and alchemists and---"  
    "---all of whom are personal friends of the family," she soothed. "Edward wanted a private   
family wedding and President Mustang knew that most people would expect a formal state   
wedding. There are still only two hundred people here, Bill.  For a Presidential wedding, that's still   
rather intimate. A morning wedding and a lovely luncheon under these beautiful ancient oak trees   
here in the parkland at Rose Hill—" she gestured to the beautiful 200-year old garden lovingly   
landscaped by the Tringham brothers." –with everything in bloom…I don't think they could have   
chosen a lovelier site, do you?"  
  
    It was not a good idea, Roy decided, to opt for an ostentatious gala. The last thing he   
wanted was grumbling in the Parliament or in the streets about wasting taxpayer's money on a   
big splashy wedding. Besides, he agreed with Ed: a wedding was a private event for family and   
friends. Therefore the decoration was kept to a minimum, letting the splendor of the springtime   
speak for itself, as natural and unadorned as possible.  
    Tringham's team of alchemists had worked wonders, gently coaxing early blooms among   
the roses and trees and flowering hedges, and the pavilion on the main green and all the tables   
were decorated by fresh greenery, glossy ferns and a riot of fresh flowers of every shade   
imaginable.  The effect was rustic and charming, and in keeping with the season. The natural   
music of the fountains, bird song and the cooing of Princess Elena's doves and the whisper of a   
fresh morning breeze in the branches overhead was enhanced by soft notes from a harpist,   
punctuated now and again by the distant whinnying of horses and the bleating of the sheep who   
had been spared a place of honor on the luncheon buffet.  
    The mood was most convivial as Sebastian's crack team of servants circulated discreetly   
in and out of the crowd, offering a refreshing libation of fresh squeezed orange juice splashed   
with champagne for the adults and a fizzy punch made from fresh berries and lemonade for those   
who preferred not to imbibe. Huge polished urns of fresh coffee and tea were at the ready, as well   
as a generous spread of light pastries, fresh fruits ,delicate cheeses and—a private joke that   
Hughes would have approved--tiny two-bite quiches with spinach or mushrooms. Every hand had   
a cup or a glass and every face bore a smile.  
 Even Kelley Winchell was hard pressed to find fault with the natural beauty of the setting,   
although she was not overly pleased to have a uniformed Riza Hawkeye inspect her purse before   
letting her in. To her disappointment, she was not given a press pass. She was simply the 'plus   
one' escort for Gladys Turlough, which still galled her—worse, because the morning papers had   
trumpeted that Gladys had just become the umpteenth wife of Emperor Ling Yao. Apparently the   
thirty-something leader could marry anyone he wanted—and if rumors were anything close to   
fact—he usually did. Inspired, she pulled a small note pad out of her purse and began jotting   
down notes….after all, it wasn't like she had to actually talk to the Emperor to write his biography,   
right? She was going to be stuck with Gladys Turlough, wasn't she? All right—the Ice Cream   
Blonde had just married the son of a bitch. It wouldn't kill Kelley to make nice, maybe get Gladys   
tipsy. Kelley thought about that comment about a good gal pal, champagne and—shudder—a   
good manicure. Kelley had not feared to stoop to her knees to get a story. For a scoop on   
Emperor Ling, she decided, a bit of muff diving might be worth the money she could make on this   
next book.  Given the preference, she would rather swallow a hefty length of hot Amestrian beef   
to….that. "Well," she chucked to herself, "that's one thing I have in common with the President…"  
###  
"And you are absolutely certain that His Excellency is protected from all sides?" Prince   
Sheng was soft-spoken and terribly polite, but Hawkeye could see that the young man was one of   
the few guests that was tense and not enjoying the festivities.   
She tried to mask her annoyance. "Your Highness, I can assure you that between the   
palace staff, the military guards, Special Ops and Ran Fan, we are currently on full alert. If any   
harm comes to His Excellency, I will take full and personal responsibility. Now," she bowed   
briefly, "if you will excuse me, I need to assist the President."  
As she marched back to the manor, the Ninth Hereditary Prince stared after her, soberly   
shaking his head. "It's not Father that I'm worried about…."  
###  
"You can't change it, Daddy! It's too late!"  
"This—" Ed pointed in disgust at the elegantly tailored linen suit hanging beside the mirror   
in his daughter's old bedroom, "—is not gonna work. It's too white. I don't wanna hear any more   
'bride' shit----'future Mr. Mustang', my ass! You gotta transmute it. Make it black or something."  
Nina, when pressed, was every bit as stubborn as both of her parents. Edward's wedding   
suit was of a warm-shaded linen, with a waistcoat and cravat in a muted crimson brocade. The   
color suited Ed's coloring and the waistcoat and cravat were transmuted from the tattered   
remains of one of Ed's old coats—the one he had worn on the Promised day. Nina had artfully   
remade it  and paired with the coat and trousers it looked very handsome indeed. A matching   
rose had been pinned in the button hole, his dark brown shoes polished until they gleamed. She   
had the ring on a chain around her neck for safekeeping along with an antique glass dip-pen and   
a sealed vial of homemade ink for the moment in the ceremony when Edward would sign the   
registry to make his marriage legal and binding, with Nina signing after him as his witness.  
"Daddy," she told him in her most reasonable voice, "you're going to look very handsome.   
There's nothing remotely feminine about this."  
"Brother,"  Al offered helpfully, "Maes and I are both wearing linen. Knowing our shared   
reputation, anybody says that the Elric men look like a trio of ladies is obviously nuts or suicidal."   
His own ensemble included a  pine green waistcoat and tie, while Maes' color accents would be   
in a tasteful shade of slate blue.   
Nina's own gown was inspired by the Gilded Era 'walking suits' for ladies—a tailored long   
jacket in soft, pale indigo linen over a high-necked cream-colored blouse and a long, sweeping   
skirt to match the jacket, both trimmed in soutache embroidery in a deeper blue, a petite hat   
trimmed in fresh blossoms and a bit of tulle veiling completing her ensemble. "We're a very   
handsome family, Daddy, and you're going to look wonderful. Now," she urged, "don't be silly.   
Get dressed, and I'll comb out your hair—you're going to wear it down, right?"  
"Wrong!" Ed growled. "That's all I need, since my hair's longer than most of the women   
around here—ah, give me that damn thing! Too late to change. Fuck it!"  
After Ed slammed the bedroom door behind him, Nina and Alphonse exchanged relieved   
glances. "One less thing to worry about," Al sighed, kissing his niece on the cheek.  
"But a bloody important one," she assured him, shaking her head. Her father might have   
grown older and taller since his days at the Fullmetal Alchemist but his pigheadedness, judging   
from his current behavior, hadn't changed one damn iota.  
###  
"We've come for the sheep, Sir."  
At the gate, Havoc was not amused. Bad enough he had several dozen protesters   
outside the main gate waving signs and yelling at the guests as Havoc checked them in.   
He examined their passes.  "Should have been here yesterday. Look," he gestured with   
his cigarette, "go 'round by the stable entrance. Load 'em up fast and get 'em out of here. We got   
a wedding in an hour." He scribbled a quick note and passed it to the driver. "Give that to Charlie   
at the back entrance. Make it fast and quiet."  
He radioed Charlie to advise him to let the van in. "Roger that," the soldier replied.   
"Where's Colonel Hawkeye? Isn't she supposed to be overseeing gate security?"  
"Never mind," Havoc answered briskly. "Carry on, Charlie."  
Carry on, he worried privately. Riza's gonna carry on and make a fool of herself and   
Mustang's not gonna like coming out of his tent on his honeymoon and find her sitting outside   
making those lonesome eyes at him. Damn, Riza….what the hell is wrong with you?  
###  
    Don't.  
    That's what she wanted to tell him.   
    All these years, Roy….I know years ago we talked about it, but…I can't help this. And   
once you sign that registry….  
    Once Roy Mustang signed that registry and license he and Edward could go together   
where she could not follow. He had as good as said so. "I've promised Edward that one day we   
will travel together. Amestris will need an ambassador someday, maybe sooner than we think.   
With radio and air travel and faster ships, the world is getting smaller. Already there are travelers   
making contact with nations on the other side of the oceans. So far, these have been peaceful. In   
time we will want to reach out to them officially. Ed thinks I'm the one to do it."  
    And he will sail or fly away….and leave me with nothing.  
    She felt sick. She didn't know what to say---didn't know what she wanted of him, other   
than to stay by his side, as long as she lived. But the years were ticking away and nothing had   
been said—he'd made no mention of how she figured into his future plans. Once he married   
Edward, things would change beyond her reckoning.   
    Her hand was shaking slightly as she turned the door knob---  
    "Your place is at the gates, Colonel."  Sebastian's voice was firm. "He is with his family   
now, preparing for his nuptials. If you truly want to serve him, do your job."  
    Her voice was tight with anger. "You are in no position---"  
    He pointed to the Special Ops badge—so tiny it nearly escaped the eye beside the   
butler's badge on his lapel. ""On the contrary, Ma'am. There are protesters outside the wall. We   
have a royal guest in our midst. You must place the safety of this event above your   
own…emotions—"   
    He was stepping into the hall. Her mouth went dry. Her poise evaporated and it took a   
Herculean effort to keep her face arranged in the mask of cool efficiency he had expect of her   
since he had hand-picked her for his team so many years ago. "Sir, I---"  
    He frowned. "Colonel, is there a problem on the perimeter? Who's manning the gates?"  
    "Major Havoc is—"  
    "I trust you to watch my back. Today more so than ever. Not just for me but for the   
Emperor's safety.  I am relying on you, Hawkeye."  
    She snapped to attention. "Yes sir," And he was gone, Maes and Collins close behind.   
Maes was dapper and grinning, joking about misplacing the ring, Collins suggesting that perhaps   
he should keep it safe until the ceremony. Mustang was laughing out loud, obviously in excellent   
spirits. Sebastian stood waiting patiently for her to leave for her post.   
    This time, it seemed, she was the useless one. She nodded once to the butler and   
headed for the gate. What ever chance she might have had—for whatever good it might have   
done to change Roy Mustang's mind or get his attention—was over and done.  
###  
    Kelley Winchell cringed. A milky-smooth arm slid thru hers. "Hiya, Toots!" A slim hand   
waved under the writer's nose, bearing a gold band with a dragon engraved on it, studded with a   
ruby big enough to choke on. "Lookit what Kingy gave me! All his foreign wives get rubies, an' he   
says if we split I can sell it for a fortune. Ain't love grand?" Gladys dabbed at her mascara'ed eyes   
with a lacy hankie. "An' he's so swell, I just might stay with him. We don't even haveta live   
together—an' he don't care if I go with girls. He says the more the merrier. 'Course, it's no sweat   
doin' it with him, 'cause he's got just the longest---"  
     "Shut up."  
    "---thing. My pillow name for him is Long Ling, but I like to call him Kingy too—"  
    "I said shut up!"   
    "Fine! Whatevah!" Gladys sniffed. "Some fun date you turned out to be!"  
    On second thought, Kelley Winchell decided, I'll have to get my dirt from another   
source—maybe another tramp stupid enough to marry him. I'd rather cut off my tongue than—  
    The grip on her arm tightened. "Oh, here they come! Don't they both look swell??"  
    They did, indeed…  
###  
    Ed stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Nina almost ran into his back. "Damn." He   
stared at Roy and had to fight an irresistible urge to chew out the zipper of Roy's dark wool   
trousers. The man looked good. He knew damn well he looked good and was insufferably smug   
about it. Ed intended to wipe that smile off Roy's face with a couple of very energetic thrusts that   
would, he determined, require the services of a chiropractor to get Roy's jaw back into working   
order.  
    Roy paused. A slow, approving smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. He made a mental   
note to get Ed out of that handsome outfit as quickly and obscenely as possible, even if it meant   
violating social etiquette and reaming him in the lavatory before luncheon was served. Good thing   
there was plenty of butter on the banquet table. Roy—no—Ed—was going to need it.  
    As was the custom, they entered from opposite sides, having flipped a coin to see who   
came in by the 'bride side'. Ed had lost, suspecting that Roy had somehow rigged the toss. His   
eyes swept the assembled crowd, his wary glare daring anyone to giggle or poke fun at him.   
There was a soft laugh, however, from Alphonse. "Get over yourself, Ed! Isn't this about love?"  
    Yeah.  
    Al was right. Ed loved that smooth, smug, arrogant, vain, manipulative son of a bitch,   
standing there, waiting for him before the old magistrate of Central, Judge Takei. Even if Roy's   
dick fell off, Ed still loved him. Love was what kept two people from killing each other after they   
climbed out of bed, wasn't it? Love was what kept you around after facing the horrors of using the   
shitter after each other. Love was sleeping on the wet spots even though you knew it wasn't your   
turn. Love was Roy always knowing how to fix Ed's coffee, bringing him a cup when Ed was lost   
in a book. Love was Ed nursing Roy through that terrible pneumonia that nearly killed him, even   
when the fever dreams made Roy cry out for a long dead lover Ed had ceased to be jealous of.  
Love was Roy in a tent in the middle of the night, cuddling and whispering to a terrified Nina and   
Maes when the distant howling of a wolf in the woods startled them. Love was Ed losing at poker   
to Aunt Chris—and paying up with a grin.   
    Love was a thousand and one moments, many dull and every day. Acts of kindness,   
great and small. Irritations and annoyances, filed away as 'not worth fighting over'. Love was a   
touch on the shoulder in passing, an arm across the chest draped comfortingly as they slept.   
Love was a thousand small moments—and a thousand more—that told Edward and Roy 'we are   
good together'.  
    It was good. It was worth it and they both wanted more of it. Ed grinned and accepted the   
ring and the pen and ink from his daughter and joined Roy Mustang before the magistrate,   
slapping his lover lightly on the shoulder. "Let's do this."  
    Magistrate Takei's voice was splendid—rich and respectful as he took a simple length of   
red silk cord and bound it loosely over their joined hands—a nod to an old Isballan belief that   
marriage bound two bloodlines together. To Roy, as unsentimental as he was, it was a pledge   
that he would acknowledge Ed's children as his own. When Ed understood what this meant, he   
readily agreed to the gesture.  
    "We are here to join Edward Elric and Roy Mustang together in a mutual agreement of   
marriage. It is fitting and appropriate that you—their friends and families and well-wishers—are   
present to witness this agreement. For the ideals, the understandings and mutual commitment   
they bring to this agreement has its roots in the love and friendship and guidance you have given   
them. The union of two people makes us aware of the changes wrought by time." There was loud   
sniff from Alex Armstrong, and Izumi tenderly clasped Sig's hand. "But the new relationship   
between Edward and Roy that begins this day will continue to draw much of its strength and   
meaning from those who have supported and loved them through the years."  
    Riza Hawkeye stepped out from behind the trees and stood silently beside Maes. Roy did   
not notice, his eyes meeting Edward's, steady and clear and confident.  
    "Also  we bear in mind those who have passed through the Gateway. Your parents, your   
family and friends. We remember them and honor their memories, knowing that friendship and   
love is not a thing bound by the limits of human imagination. They are with you still and we   
remember them."  Gracia blinked back her tears and smiled. Maes had  always wanted to see   
Roy happily married. It was coming to pass at last.  
    "These are the words of the desert poets: 'your task, Edward and Roy, is to not to seek   
for love from one another, but instead to seek and find all the barriers within yourselves that you   
have built against it. Let yourselves be silently drawn to the stronger wisdom of what you truly   
honor in one another. And think not that you can direct the course of this love—for love, when it   
finds you worthy, directs your course."  
    It's all so lovely, Elycia sighed to herself. The soft spring wind lifting, carrying the scent of   
green and growing things and making the candles flicker on the magistrate's podium. Beside her,   
Cameron Howe became suddenly aware at how lovely she was and how idiotic he had been not   
to notice this before. How lucky he had been that that dreadful Kelley Winchell had caused such a   
fuss with her tawdry book on the President, setting off such an unlikely chain of events that led to   
him sitting beside what he suspected was the most wonderful girl in Amestris…  
    "Roy…Edward. At this moment, look to one another and think upon all you have been to   
each other for so many years—as lovers, confidants, friends, --even to the times when you were   
at odds with one another. Think of the times you have fought for the same causes, for the sakes   
of others. From this day forward, may you always fight on the same side." There was a good deal   
of affectionate laughter at this from the crowd and the two grooms themselves. "Now, speak your   
vows to one another—and remember, from this moment, things will never be the same…"  
      
    The breeze had picked up just a little and Nina felt the veiling of her hat slip a bit to one   
side. She lifted her hand to adjust it….   
            Her arm began to burn    
            "Oh!"    
             She touched her sleeve and saw the red stains on her fingers. It was only then that she   
was aware that she had heard the shots, that her father was screaming and that her beloved   
Poppy had dropped  to his knees…there was the sudden flutter of wings...   
            And time—cruelly and without warning---slowed to a crawl as the world went white before   
her eyes…..   
   
  
  
….TO BE CONTINUED….  
      
  



	33. A DIFFERENT LIGHT (Presidential Wedding pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An act of senseless violence disrupts Ed and Roy’s wedding that transforms Ed’s life forever in the one way he could have never anticipated….

OUR LIVES CHAPTER 33: A DIFFERENT LIGHT (PRESIDENTIAL WEDDING PART TWO)  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013  
  
    "When biographers and historians recount the events of that fine spring morning of the   
Presidential wedding, the answers will not make sense. I was there. I saw each moment unfold in   
crystal-clear detail. And I can tell you this for certain: President Mustang was not shot by a   
terrorist from Creta. He was not shot by some scarred veteran of the Ishballan campaign. The   
bullet was not fired by an old lover or a false friend.   
    "President Mustang was shot by…nobody in particular.  
    A nonentity. A bland face in the crowd. A young man of no great talent or intellect and of   
no fame. A young man who, somewhere in the twisted working of his thoughts, felt the need to   
draw attention to himself. A young man who brooded in the pubs and in his one-room bed sitter   
flat that the World Had Done Him Wrong, but for his lack of ambition had not bothered to find a   
way to take the reins of his life and choose a course that might make him respected or loved—a   
path that might have helped others less fortunate and more desperate than he was.  
    "He brooded until he found what he deemed a Just Cause. He found it in the pages of a   
book about the Ishballan conflict, staring at the photographs of a grim-faced young man—no   
older than Richard Terrence Chapman was at this time—a young alchemist who could melt a   
human child to a puddle of grease and ashes with the snap of his fingers. A boy soldier who had   
the power of death at his fingertips—who had risen to the highest office in the nation. A devoted   
son of his motherland, born into a line of cavalry officers, who was deceived into becoming a   
tinderbox of war, ordered to harness his remarkable talents to reduce the Ishballan resistance to   
cinders. A boy soldier and alchemist, horrified by what he had become, who would dedicate the   
rest of his life to stopping the madness of unjust wars and healing the nation.  
 Richard Chapman did not read this part of Roy Mustang's story. He didn't read it   
because I didn't write it. In those days I was too eager to chase the money, too quick to listen to a   
biased source and dash off words of insinuation as fact.   
    "Richard Chapman read the words I wrote about Roy Mustang. He poured over the   
pictures taken by Donal Samuelson, over and over, hour after hour.   
    "Richard Chapman found a Cause. He brooded over it and the faulty mechanics of his   
mind convinced him that if he were to take down Roy Mustang, he would be a Hero. He would   
right a great wrong. He would protect the children. And most importantly, his days as a faceless,   
fameless drifter would be over.  
    "And in the end, , everyone believed it was my fault."  
    ---"One Writer's Life: My Story", by Kelley Winchell  
###  
    The doves had distracted his attention. Ed had glanced up and seen that some idiot had   
released Princess Elena's 500 white doves before the end of the ceremony. He'd thought 'great---  
We're about to get dive bombed. Bet Winry and Mei are gonna find some goddamned bad omen   
about bird shitting on your head during your wedding…'  
    Then his daughter cried out and his husband—so very nearly his husband---clutched his   
chest. Only then did his brain process the sharp cracking of a handgun coming from the crowd.   
Without hesitation, he shoved Roy to his knees and flung himself in front of him.   
"SONOVABITCH!!" he screamed. "NO! GODDAMN IT!! NO!!!"  
    "Shut up, Ed…I'm…all right…I think." Roy's hand was pulling at the lapis colored   
waistcoat. There was blood seeping out, staining his fine clothing, but he was upright and still   
breathing.  
    "Shut up and don't die!" Ed snarled back. "Some asshole is shooting!"  Then he saw his   
daughter clutching at her left arm with a bloody hand. "NINA!!"  
    She was very pale but she wiggled her fingers on her left hand, even though it hurt like   
hell. "I'm hit, but I'm okay, Daddy! Keep down!"  
    Riza Hawkeye shoved Ed aside, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms tightly   
around the President's body. "Roy….ROY!! Nooooooo!!!" She clutched him close, tears spilling   
down her face.  
    The eyes that gazed into hers were very lucid, very clear, although his voice was barely a   
whisper. "Colonel…why aren't you at your post? You…promised me….you'd watch my back…"  
    Al saw the fury and disbelief on Ed's face and crawled over to stop whatever act of   
violence Ed might be capable of in the madness of this horrible moment. He caught Hawkeye by   
the arm. "He'll be okay---get the shooter!" The older woman didn't move. "You want to keep him   
safe? Get the bastard that shot him. Maes!" he shouted over his shoulder, "Go help Hawkeye!"  
    But Maes had already gone…  
###  
    "Chyort voz'mi!"  Peta Lobachevsky was, as usual, shamelessly late—but that damned   
Amestrian food did terrible things to her digestion, not to mention the stunning hangover she'd   
gotten drinking Cretan grappa last night with Maes and Collins. Her father was furious for her   
having to excuse herself just as everybody was getting seated for the ceremony. She was   
running disgracefully, still clutching her unfashionable leather handbag stuffed with books.   
Several people snickered as the tall, buxom girl dashed past, ginger hair flying, one finger   
shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Ah, poshyol-ty (fuck off)!" she yelled back as a   
young man in rough clothing dashed past her out of the green hedges and into the parkland,   
knocking her to the ground.  
    She was scrabbling for her glasses when she heard the gunfire. The  lid was off the dove   
crate—he must have opened it to create a distraction. He had dropped into a crouching stance,   
firing wildly and amateurishly but in the general direction of the wedding party.   
"Ublyudok!(bastard)!"  
    Flat on her ass, she couldn't stop him but she sure as hell could slow him down. A copy   
of a rare commentary on water alchemy Maes had given her last night was still in her bag, It was   
roughly as large and a hefty as a brick, and Peta had been throwing snowballs at the dignified   
students of Stoltovgrad University since she was old enough to spank.  
    She caught him in the back of the head when he turned and ran, making him stagger and   
then shoved two fingers in her mouth, letting loose an earsplitting whistle she knew Maes and   
Nina and Collins would immediately recognize. "DE GATE!" Peta bellowed in Amestrian. "Dot   
shooder—he iss headink tovards de gate!"  
    Maes and Collins thundered past her, way ahead of the security team. She crawled to   
her feet, snatched up her glasses and headed after them, swinging her book bag over her head   
like an avenging angel.  
###  
    Ed's fingers pressed against the side of Roy's neck. His pulse was erratic but strong. Roy   
was pale and sweaty but he was alert and sensibly trying to stay calm and lie still. Ed glanced up   
and nodded. "Chen's coming with Mei. I see Knox. Don't worry, we'll get you fixed up."  
    Alphonse was examining his niece. "The break's not bad," he told them. "I've gotten the   
bleeding to stop. Chen can---"  
    "I'll help Miss Nina." The voice was low and calm as a tall figure knelt to join them. It was   
Sheng Yao. Before Ed could protest he lifted the palms of his hands, revealing the fine tracery of   
alkahestric array tattoos. "I am Master Mei's disciple. Let me be of use."  
    Moving to her side, he asked Alphonse to hold Nina's arm straight, resting it over his   
own. The prince's hands were deft and gentle and his quiet voice was oddly calming. "Nina-sama,   
bear the pain if you can. This will not take a moment."  He clapped his hands and a cool greenish   
light crackled between them. One palm cupped her elbow, the other cradled her hand, and the   
energy leaped and danced along the length of her arm. The burning pain was extinguished and   
she sighed heavily with relief. She stared up into his dark, serene eyes, surprised that someone   
barely older than her brother could be this steady in a crisis. "I want to learn how you did this."  
    He bowed his head. "When His Excellency is out of danger and all is well, it will be my   
honor, Nina-sama. Now," he helped her to rise, "let us do what we can for His Excellency. I fear   
Dr. Knox will not allow us to heal him---"  
    "Goddamn right! Get out of the way!" Knox shooed the alchemists aside. Ed looked angry   
enough to bite him. "Get his shirt open and—" the doctor peered down and frowned. "What the   
hell is this?"  There was a small hole in Roy's waistcoat and Knox stuck his finger through it.   
"Could have stopped the bullet, almost." His eyes moved to the President's face. "You may be   
luckier than you deserve, Roy."  
    Ed was thoroughly confused ."What?"  
    "Slow….as…ever….Ed." Roy closed his eyes and smiled weakly. "A different….vest." He   
squeezed Ed's hand. "Yours too." Ed touched his crimson waistcoat. It did feel different.   
"Maes…changed---"   
    "Easy, Roy," Al cut in. "Yes, it's Maes' design. We got the idea from Ling's people. It's   
silk—layers and layers. Alchemically modified." Ed had been in too big a hurry to get dressed to   
notice it, and Nina had certainly argued with her father to wear this particular outfit. " Your   
waistcoats, both of them. Mine too. And Maes. Nina's got it in the lining of her jacket, and Ling's   
got his under his robes. I think a little more work and his prototype ballistic fabric could prove very   
useful."  
    "Shut up, Al," Knox interrupted. "I wanna see what we've got here. You—with the hair---"   
Knox jerked a thumb at Prince Sheng. "Get the kid out of here. Get her to triage. I want that arm   
x-rayed. Tell 'em to get me a stretcher. Let's get the President out of here."  
    "No." Roy lifted his hand in feeble protest. "If it's…not deep, get…the…bullet out. Chen   
…patch me up. Not…leaving…gonna finish this. Waited too…damn….long…"   
    "Shut up, Mustang!"   
    Roy closed his eyes again. "Hurry, damn you."  
###  
    "Thank you, Sebastian."  
    Every hour that the Majordomo had forced Collins to practice on the shooting range was   
finally paying off. He shouted for Maes to get out of the way, took a secure stance, aimed and   
grinned when he heard the scruffy man scream, tumbling to the ground and grabbing at his right   
leg. A moment later, Maes was on him and Collins found himself in the distasteful position of   
having to save the life of the man who had just tried to kill the President.  
    "Maes! Stand down! He's not going anywhere!"  
    Edward's son couldn't hear his lover for the fury that had taken over his good sense. His   
face was a terrible mask and his hands were wrapped around Richard Chapman's throat, thumbs   
digging into his windpipe. "I'll kill you," Maes bellowed. "Fuckin' kill you!"  
    Riza Hawkeye raced up to intercede, her blood running cold at the sight of Edward's   
good natured firstborn, killing a man with the same cold blooded rage that Roy Mustang had   
shown the day of his epic battle against Envy. The same transformation had come over this child   
whom she had known since he had been small enough to right piggyback on Jean's strong   
shoulders. "Maes. Maes. Stop it. Let him go. He's not going anywhere."  
    "KILL YOU, you son of a bitch!"  
    Collins grabbed at his lover's shoulders and got shoved aside. "You heard the Colonel,   
Maes. Let her---"  
    "Out of de vay!" Peta Lobachevsky stumbled up to her long time friend, whirled her book   
bag over her head and clouted Maes hard on the back, knocking him flat. She grabbed him by the   
hair and pointed her finger in his face. "You stupid sookin'syn (son of a bitch)! How you gonna   
question dis prick if he's dead?? I saw him do it. I'm your witness. We bust him  and den he goes   
to jail, da? " She hauled Maes up to his feet, wiped a smudge of dirt off his face and then kissed   
his cheek. "Come on. Your papa needs you now. Grow up. Get going. Don't make me kick your   
zhopa(ass)!"  
    Arm in arm, Peta led Maes away, with Collins at their side, Hawkeye cuffing the suspect   
and ordering the security team to search the perimeter. Collins passed his clean handkerchief to   
Maes, since the younger man had broken Chapman's nose while beating the hell out of him and   
some of the blood had spattered Maes' face. "You really might want to reconsider marrying Peta,"   
Collins added, "Terribly handy in a fight."  
    "Oh, piss off, Davy!"  
###  
    They had moved Roy under the pavilion, shoving two tables together to give Knox and   
the alchemists some place to work. "Ed, c'mon---step aside. Give them room." Distantly he heard   
Alphonse somewhere beside him. Izumi, too, was urging him to go sit down because he looked   
like he was about to pass out. Pitt Renback had come over and was trying to get Ed to put his   
head down because the color had drained right out of his face and he was nearly the color of his   
linen suit. "Stop hovering, Ed!"  
    "It is not like you can do anything anymore," Mei added. She had not meant to sound   
unkind, but the bluntness of her words earned her an angry glare from Izumi.  
    Ed's eyes turned to Alphonse, Mei, Dr. Cheng and Izumi. "I'm useless as an alchemist.   
Yeah. I get that. I can't help Roy. Can't even help my own kid….but I ain't leaving."  
    Knox threw the last surgical sponge to the ground. He had given Roy a shot of lidocane   
and had cleaned his chest with a disinfectant. "It's not deep. I can get it." His eyes moved to meet   
Ed's. "You can help me. Hold him steady. Hands on his shoulders." He looked down at Roy. "All   
right, soldier. Here we go." He made the first shallow incision with his scalpel…  
###  
    She had bolted and run for her life—much like everyone else—at the first crack of   
gunfire. She didn't give a damn who shot whom, as long as nobody shot her. The logical thing to   
do was to run for the house, which had been stampeded by nearly 200 people.  
    Inside, that wretch Sebastian and some ghoul named Falman were ordering everybody to   
sit down, shut up and be quiet.   
    There was a low buzz of wild rumor in the room. The President was dead. It was a   
terrorist. It was Donal Samuelson. It was the Ishballans. It was a jealous lover. "Aw, everybody   
shut the hell up," Chris Mustang roared from her wheelchair. "It's just a flesh wound. He's getting   
stitched up and he and Ed are gonna finish the ceremony, so everybody just stop yappin'."  
    Half an hour later, Maria Ross leaned down and whispered something in the old woman's   
ear. She nodded. Then she looked around the assembled guests. "Where the hell is Kelley   
Winchell?"  
    The crowed around the writer parted like water. "All right, you goddamned hack. They   
caught the guy who shot my boy. Some two bit loser, trying to make a name for himself. And you   
wanna know what he had inside is coat?" Her smile was a thing of cold malice. "A copy of that   
piece of shit you wrote about Ishbal with Frank Archer and Donal Samuelson. Autographed.   
Should be a real boost for your career."   
###  
    He didn't make a sound, but the tendons on his neck stood out and sweat dripped down   
his face. Ed was just as glad Nina wasn't here to see this, thankful that Prince Sheng and Dr.   
Marcoh were tending her.   
    How strange that he never paid much mind to the sight of his own blood, but seeing the   
crimson welling and running down Roy's naked chest was causing a strange pressure inside his   
body, like something wanted to burst out straight from his heart…  
  
    I'm useless. Couldn't save Nina Tucker.   
  
    Al tossed him a sympathetic look and it only made Ed furious.  
  
    My daughter gets shot and another alchemist has to ease her pain and all I can do is just   
stand there like a dumbass---with all my knowledge and all my experience….my child—my little   
girl---and I'm useless, goddamn it…  
  
    His head was throbbing—it felt like his skull was about to blow apart…  
  
    Can't help Roy….can't heal him.  
  
    Dr. Knox nodded his head. "Got it….almost done. Roy, hold steady…take a deep   
breath—"  
  
    There's nothing I wouldn't give—Roy…Nina…  
      
    Izumi saw the tear coursing down Ed's sweaty cheek. "Do what you can, son," she told   
him softly, slipping her arm around his shoulder. "Roy understands. It's okay, Ed."  
  
    Ed was hyperventilating. His hands were icy cold and slick with perspiration. The color   
rose suddenly in his cheeks and when Al looked at him he was alarmed. "We're about to start,   
Ed. Why don't you go sit down?"  
  
    Something snapped.  
  
    "I…AM….NOT….FUCKING USELESS!"  
  
    It seemed to explode from the center of his brain, burning down along the pathways of   
every nerve fiber. It hurt—oh, so terribly---like it was being wrenched out of his soul.   
    Maes Elric, Peta Lobachevsky and David Collins dashed into the pavilion and stopped   
dead in their tracks. It was not Roy Mustang that they were staring at.  
    It was Edward Elric, who stood with his shaking hands on his lover's bare shoulders, a   
soft golden light—a different light than the blaze and glory of his younger days—shimmering   
faintly from his fingertips.   
    It was not enough to heal, but it didn't matter.  
    Roy opened his eyes and smiled up at his lover.  
    "I always knew you'd come back…."  
  
….TO BE CONTINUED….  
  



	34. TRUTH AND PROMISES (Presidential Wedding Pt 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the age of 16, Edward Elric passed thru the Gate of Truth one last time and surrendered the Portal within him that makes alchemy possible….or did he? And, at long last, Edward and Roy exchange rings in the presence of their friends and families---but will Dr Knox sabotage their wedding night?

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 34: TRUTH AND PROMISES (PRESIDENTIAL WEDDING, PT 3)  
By The Binary Alchemist 2013  
  
    Anyone who expected a cry of joy or triumph from Edward Elric obviously didn't know him   
well at all. If it had not been for the gravity of the moment and the fact that Roy needed him there   
he would have left the pavilion, headed straight for the aerodrome and told the first pilot at the   
gate, "one ticket to anywhere but here".   
    But he couldn't run and he couldn't hide and he couldn't face what he had just done—  
those soft golden flickers that shimmered around his hands as his fury and disgust at not being   
able to protect or heal his loved ones caused the last barriers in his mind to finally collapse, the   
glow of a different light finally breaking free. All other venues closed to him, he bowed his face   
and didn't say a word.  
    Faint as it was, Roy could feel it. His hands slid up and he grasped Edward firmly by the   
wrists, knowing his lover's fight-or-flight tendencies all too well. "Feels good," he whispered.   
"Don't stop. It helps."   
    Mei and Dr. Chen were sealing the wound. Roy would be sore for some time but the   
wound was healed without a scar. When they were finished, Roy tapped Edward on the forearm.   
"Help me up." He grimaced, but his color was good now and he quickly took command of the   
situation. "Mei, Dr. Chen—please check on the Emperor. Tell him we will be resuming the   
ceremony in about an hour. Maes—check on your sister. Tell Aunt Chris I'm okay and deal with   
the press." He gave the young man a cautioning glance. "You might want to clean the blood off   
your suit first. Collins---well done. Check in with Sebastian and Breda and start getting the people   
back into the garden—have some guards in plain sight to keep everybody calm. And I'll need   
some clean clothing. I suspect they will want what I'm wearing for evidence. Peta—find Chef   
Ramsay and tell him to get the tables out with fresh food. Bring your book bag." He smiled at the   
young alchemist. "He might need some convincing."  
    She smiled warmly at him. "Vell, knowledge iss power…quite a few kilos worth, ven I get   
a good spin on it." For a moment she hesitated, then kissed Edward on the cheek, then laid one   
hand gently over his. "This," she curled her fingers around his, "only good vill come of it. I believe   
dot." Ed didn't even look at her as she dashed out of the tent, embarrassed and a little scared that   
the professor who had been her idol and inspiration as an alchemy student was now clearly so   
unnerved  by his own power.  
    Ed sank down on a folding chair, elbows on his knees, head bowed, not speaking. His   
misery was a tangible thing—and Izumi had no patience with it.  
    She sat down across from him and folded her arms.   
"So Edward….where's your leg?"  
###  
    A military field phone was commandeered and Breda called Radio Capital, Amestrian   
Broadcasting, The Central Times, and every other major news outlet in the country. A member of   
a protest group gathered outside Rose Hill had snuck in the day before to help deliver a truckload   
of live sheep which, it turned out, had not been sent as a joke from Pio Bacalla.  A gun was   
planted in a bale of hay that had been in the transport van and then carried out to the paddock   
where the sheep had been penned before moving. When the van returned, Richard Terrence   
Chapman had been on board again. After retrieving his gun, he had passed through the hedges   
and fired on the wedding party, wounding the President and his seventeen year old stepdaughter.   
Both had been treated by both medical staff and alchemic healers and were in satisfactory   
condition and that the wedding would be held just before noon, local time. The suspect was in   
custody and had been identified as one of the protesters seen outside the President's home.  
    Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang in Donal Samuelson's office. "I said one more act of   
violence and you're through. One of your fans was outside Rose Hill screaming that Mustang was   
a baby-killer. Mustang's had a bullet dug out of his chest—after it passed through Nina Elric's   
arm. If it hadn't hit her first it would have killed him." There was no humor in the voice this time.   
"You might want to dig under the sofa cushions for any stray change. You're going to need every   
coin you can find."  There was an abrupt 'click!' and a badly shaken Samuelson pulled the   
decanter off his desk, yanked out the stopper and swallowed deeply.  
    His campaign coffers had just been emptied, down to the last cen.  
###  
    Peta Lobachevsky didn't have to swing her book bag to talk Ramsay into setting up the   
tables that had overturned in the mad rush to escape the wedding area. Especially when she   
hinted that she really liked the food and that his artistry should not be wasted.   
    She checked on Nina, finding her surprisingly calm, sipping tea with Prince Sheng and   
Dr. Marcoh. "Poppy said he was going to be all right. He would never lie to me. Auntie Mei and   
Uncle Chen are the finest healer alchemists in Xing—although I think if Auntie Mei needs more   
convincing that Prince Sheng—" she gestured to a startlingly good looking Xingese man whose   
heavy black hair was bound at one shoulder by a silver dragon clasp and fell nearly to his waist—  
"is more than ready to take his qualification exams in medicine, I can give him a credible   
endorsement." She held out her arm. The bullet had gone right through it, breaking the radius   
bone. It was still tender and bruised but the bone was healed and the hole in her flesh was gone.  
    Hearing the sounds of chanting and angry voices, she headed up the main path to the   
gate. Riza Hawkeye was there, still in her blood-stained uniform and clutching a rifle. Her face   
was a mask and there was something that perhaps Peta could not lay her finger on but   
instinctively didn't seem right.   
    She approached the colonel and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Dese protesters—lissen, I   
am Drachman. I know from riots and ugly crowds. Dot gun—de sight of it is only going to make   
t'ings vorse. I show you how it's done."  
    She stepped through the gates and put her fingers to her mouth, a sharp, piercing whistle   
once again capturing everyone's attention. "All right, lissen op, everybody!" She smiled at them   
and clapped the tallest man on the shoulder, meeting him nearly eye to eye. "Zo—you gotta beef   
with Mustang. Dot's fine. Ev'rybody's got de right to freedom of speech in dis country. A good   
'ting, da? But today—is not a politics day. Today iss a day of love—a day ov family. How you feel,   
" she glanced around the crowd, "iff some azzhole turn up on your wedding day and make such a   
fuss? And one ov you just shot up a seventeen year old girl—just because you don't like   
Mustang. She just there for her papa's wedding and boom! Nearly had her arm blown off. What   
she ever do to you? Someone shoot your little girl, you be plenty pissed, da?"  She turned back to   
the group leader, now looking very awkward and embarrassed. "Hokay. Be nice. Give the family a   
break an' let them have their happy day. Go home to your families."  
    She smiled and waved from the gate. "Goodbye! Dasvidaniya! Say hello to your wives   
and kids!"   
    Hawkeye, now joined by Charlie, couldn't believe her eyes. "I'll be damned," Charlie   
muttered.   
    The ginger-haired girl let herself back in. "See? Dot is vat I learnt from Professor Edward:   
that beating the snot out of people may make you feel damn goot—but it's not de answer most   
times. You gotta tink your way out of t'ings." She swung her book bag over her shoulder. "De   
wedding start soon again. I see you dere."  
###  
    "A simple question, Ed. Where is your leg?"  
    He didn't look up. "You know what happened."  
    Alphonse, Izumi and Roy exchanged glances. Al shook his head slightly, his eyes   
pleading for Izumi not to pursue this any further. She shook her head. She had been holding her   
tongue ever since Al and Ed had come back through the Gateway and she would be silent no   
longer.  
    "Explain it to me again."  
    "No." When he looked up at his teacher, there was real anger in his eyes. "You didn't   
hear me the first time I told you?"  
    If he had been fifteen, she would have knocked him across the room for an answer like   
that. Instead, she reached out and took his hands in her own. "Edward….you told me—told all of   
us---that you had decided to keep your automail so you would have a constant reminder of what   
you had done when you misused alchemy." Her hand moved to his right shoulder. "As if the   
mirror would not show you the scars on your chest and back---the metal fragments from the   
connection ring that can't be removed from around your shoulder joint. The scars on your thigh.   
The suture scars where the wires had been attached to your muscles and nerves. You were   
thinking those scars were not enough—you had to make yourself suffer more dramatically by   
refusing a perfectly healthy limb?" She frowned. "I'm not even going to ask you about the story   
that Winry would be upset if you came home without automail. I think you may recall how she   
reacted when she heard that. It's a miracle that she didn't knock your brains out with that   
wrench—it's clear she didn't knock any sense into you."  
    Ed's face turned a deep scarlet and his fists balled up, but Izumi hadn't even gotten   
started. "You needed a daily reminder not to repeat your old mistakes?" She pointed at Alphonse.   
"There is the best reminder of all---your brother's face.   
    There was a warning in his eyes. "Shut up."  
    "ED!" Alphonse was shocked. Roy shook his head, amazed at Edward's stubbornness.   
"Edward," Roy added, "isn't that what you said to our son when he asked you the same   
question?"  
    "Brother? You told everybody that you decided not to take your leg back."  
    Izumi looked stern. "He lied. There is no bargaining with Truth. And I should know."  
###  
    Nobody spoke to Kelley Winchell as the remaining crowd herded back to the wedding   
oak. Roy's household staff had made efficient work of straightening up everything that was   
shoved aside or overturned in the mad rush to get the hell out of the line of fire. Sheska had even   
tied ribbons around anything that showed a stray bullet hole—it appeared that at least six rounds   
had been fired.  
    A twentyish young man with dark hair and eyes was walking an elderly, dignified woman   
back to the oak when he stopped suddenly, staring at her. When Kelley recognized his face, she   
tried to get out of his way but he blocked her path.  
    "I was made into a monster," Selim Bradley told her. "You made yourself a monster.   
That," he sighed, "makes me very, very sad."  
###  
    "There was no bargain, was there, Brother?" Al's voice was very soft, as if speaking to a   
very frightened child. All these years…and Alphonse had not dared to press Edward for a truthful   
answer.  Ed had paid such a terrible price to bring Al across the threshold to the world that it   
seemed wrong to pry and possibly upset or anger Ed. But now that Al had seen transmutative   
energy flicker around his brother's hands there was simply no avoiding it now.   
  
    When Maes and Nina has been young alchemy students they had both questioned their   
father's story. Maes had even confronted his father, "But Dad—it doesn't make any sense. I know   
you gave up your Portal of Truth—it was yours to give, right? But that still doesn't explain why---"  
    "Don't try to figure it out, son. Your Uncle Al is back, and that's all that matters." And he   
walked away from his son and daughter and that, Edward decided, was that.   
    "But…it's wrong, Nitwit. What's he hiding from us?" Maes wanted to know. He loved his   
father dearly and the idea that, after such a terrible sacrifice, his father returned from the Gateway   
unrestored saddened him. "He's given up everything---"  
    "I know, Tinker. I know. But it's no good pushing it. "He's the only one who knows what   
really happened before he freed Uncle Al. Whatever it is," she sighed, "he won't talk to us about   
it. In fact," she mused, "I don't even think he's willing to think about it himself. He's alive, at least,   
and so is Uncle. I suppose we will have to content ourselves with that."  
  
    "Edward, you told me every single word that you remember from your conversation with   
Truth." Roy chose his words with care. "You told  us a choice was made—but you never   
mentioned actually discussing it with Truth."  
    Izumi rose and stood before Edward. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders.   
"Because he didn't, Roy. He didn't ask for his leg back. He didn't ask for it to be left in the   
Gateway. Truth told him that surrendering his Portal was the solution—the equivalent exchange   
for his brother's body. Then he told us that as the Portal deconstructed, so did Truth, who said   
'Goodbye, Edward Elric!' when it disappeared. And since all he could think about—the one thing   
he had been living for—was your safe return, Al….Ed didn't notice that he had been tricked…if   
you can call it a trick." She hugged Edward tightly to her heart, tenderly stroking his messy hair.   
"If you had been thinking about anything but your brother, you would have noticed three key   
things:  
    "One: Truth told you it was God---and that it was you. You saw Truth deconstruct. You   
did not deconstruct yourself. You are still here. You were seeing an illusion. Truth is not separate   
from ourselves, Ed. Which leads me to—  
    "Two: "The sum of all knowledge is written into every leaf and stone, and in the soul of   
every living being. There is much that we have forgotten.' A very ancient proverb, Ed, The Portal   
is the Gateway to your soul—and you cannot be severed from your soul. You may forget the sum   
of knowledge or lose your way, but separating yourself from the Portal within you? That's as   
ridiculous as tearing out your own heart with your bare hands---"  
    "I saw it! Teacher, I saw the damn thing deconstruct when I transmuted it in front of   
Truth—" Ed's eyes were wide with anxiety, as if even thinking about that day was breaking a self-  
imposed taboo.  
    "Ed….think about this. What was it that you told me the Father said about how the   
homunculi were created? The Father wanted to separate himself from his own imperfections. His   
greed, his lusts, his gluttony, his wrath, his slothfulness, his envy…his pride. He separated those   
parts of himself and gave them bodies he had created. When you came back to the Gate and told   
Truth you were ready and confident about giving up your Portal….you didn't really understand   
what you were giving up. YOU were giving up something far bigger than your ability to use   
alchemy. You were surrendering your ego."   
"What was it that got us into so much trouble in the first place?" Al asked. "Didn't Shou   
Tucker tell you that you were both alike? That you transmuted Mom for more than just missing   
her—that you couldn't resist using what you'd learned? Weren't we greedy, Ed? Didn't we feel   
wrath—weren't we too slothful to learn to do things the hard way, by hand, like Teacher told us to   
do? I…I think what you had to give up all along to get my body back wasn't your alchemy—it was   
what your alchemy made you into."  
"You were a kid and you had powers many adults don't have," Roy added. "If you give a   
kid a book of matches there's a damn good chance he's going to start a fire he can't control and   
people are going to get hurt. I think when you surrendered your Portal, you were willing to let go   
your power. Not to let it control you. That's something most people can't do. Look what I did with   
mine. Think of the deaths I have on my conscience…I could have given alchemy up forever—and   
I didn't.  Takes a hell  of a lot of guts to do what you did, and you did it because it was the right   
thing to do."  
"Which brings me to three: where's your leg, Ed?"  
Ed lifted his head and looked straight into his Teacher's eyes. "Truth has it."  
"The exchange was not equivalent."  
"I….I don't know."  
 It cost Ed everything to admit it. Once he had done it, he felt as if a weight had been   
lifted off his soul.  
    "So, what balances the exchange, Ed?" Izumi cupped his face in her hands, her eyes full   
of pride in her student. 'Think carefully. You know that you can never be cut off from something   
that is a part of your soul. You understand now that what you really gave up was your attachment   
to your power—a lesson in humility. You've grown and matured. If you don't believe that," she   
gestured to where Nina and Maes now stood in the pavilion's doorway, hand in hand, "look at the   
generation of young people who you have trained.  
"Maes could have used his power to harm the man who shot your husband and child—it   
didn't even occur to him. Skilled as he is, every intricate device he builds he has made by his own   
hands. He knows where alchemy has its place in his life. Your daughter wants to change the   
world—and she will do it without using alchemy to gain her ends—because she made a mistake   
and she learned from it. You taught an Emperor's son the ethics of alchemy and his only desire is   
to ease suffering—something that his royal father does not always think of.  And you took a girl   
who had been raised to think herself useless to take pride in her gifts and to use her water   
alchemy to help others. A generation, Ed, that you trained to follow the code—be thou for the   
people.   
"And on top of that—you sacrificed and asked nothing for yourself.  
"One door has closed. A new one has opened. It is up to you to decide if you will choose   
to use it. If you do, " she finished, "I believe…I know….you will use it wisely this time."  
###  
    "Awright," Knox growled. "Finish the ceremony and cut the damned cake and you're   
done. I'm keeping you overnight in the hospital."  
    Roy looked stubborn. "This is my wedding night---"  
    "—and you've been balling each other for fifteen years. Tomorrow, everything looks   
good, you can take off to the woods. Screw your brains out, I couldn't care less. You know I don't   
have much faith in that alchemy shit.  And as your physician, I outrank you in a crisis. I have the   
pull to admit you now. So shut up, Roy and do things my way."  
    Suddenly, the groom smirked. Knox glared at him. "I know that look, Mustang. You're up   
to something."  
    Roy's voice became sly and seductive. "Up to something? That's what I had planned.   
After all, you can't keep family out of my room, right?  And didn't everything start with a night in a   
hospital bed, hmmmmmmmm?"  
    Realizing what Roy was implying, Knox smacked his forehead. "Goddamn it! Not again!!"  
###  
    "Now," Magistrate Takei beamed, "where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?   
Ah yes. Oh yes—Roy, Edward--speak your vows to one another—and remember, from this   
moment, things will never be the same between you, for after these vows you will say to the   
world, 'this is my husband'."  
    Roy turned to the crowd. "Rebecca? Would you bring Aunt Chris forward? Gracia?   
Elycia? You too. Kain, call the gate—I want Hawkeye and Havoc here, and get Breda and   
Falman from the house. This is important."  
    It took several minutes, but at last Roy had his team, his aunt and Gracia and Elycia   
standing by his side. He turned to face them, looking each one deeply in the eyes. "There is an   
old saying you've undoubtedly heard: 'no man is an island'. My mother and father died when I   
was little. I had the privilege of being raised by my father's sister. There was nothing she didn't   
sacrifice to see to it that I was raised well and educated as an alchemist. Gracia and Elycia—I am   
honored to think of you as my family. Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, Falman, Furey—it is and has been   
an honor to serve in your company. You stood with me on the worst days of my life. Stand with   
me now on the best day. I've been waiting a very long time for this. Thank you for being my   
friends." He turned to his best man. "Maes? May I have the ring?"  
    Maes handed it to his stepfather.  Roy held it up for a moment and then took Edward's   
hand. "Edward Elric, in the presence of these witnesses, I commit myself to you and to this   
marriage. In triumph and in adversity, for all the days of my life I will stand with you and by you.  I   
give you the token of this ring---made from Al's armor and crafted by our children—as a visible   
sign to all the world of this pledge of my love and loyalty." The steel band, engraved with the   
salamander array, slipped onto Ed's left hand.      
    It took several moments for Ed to master himself, owing to what he would later insist was   
a bit of grit that the wind had blown into his eyes.  Then he turned to the crowd. "Alphonse.   
Teacher. Sig. Winry and Pitt. Come over here, will ya?"  
    Ed cleared his throat. "I hate sentimental shit. Everybody knows that. And everybody   
knows that no matter where I've traveled in the past fifteen years, my home was here, with this   
guy. Eventually I figured out that home was this guy—this guy and Maes and Nina. Y'know, when   
that son of a bitch shot him earlier this morning, I didn't even know until later that I threw myself in   
front of him—and I know he'd have done the same for me or our kids or anybody I care about.   
I've got his back and he's got mine and that's the way it is. Okay."  
    He took the ring from Nina and slid the ring on Roy's finger. "Okay, Mustang. , in the   
presence of these witnesses, I commit myself to you and to this marriage. In triumph and in   
adversity, for all the days of my life I will stand with you and by you.  I give you the token of this   
ring---made from Al's armor and crafted by our children—as a visible sign to all the world of this   
pledge of my love and loyalty. Okay?"      
    Roy was grinning back at him.  They bumped fists. "Okay, Ed."  
    'Let's sign the registry. Let's do this." Accepting the pens from Nina and Maes, they each   
signed their own names, as did Maes. When it was Nina's turn, she smiled at her fathers and   
boldly scribbled "Nina Mustang Elric", dropping her grandmother's middle name to keep her   
stepfather's name alive.  
    "Very well. Roy and Edward, may you strive to meet this pledge of loyalty and   
commitment in the years to come with the same dedication and love we have witnessed today.   
As Magistrate and Parliamentary Judge for the Central region and the Nation of Amestris, I   
hereby recognize Edward Elric and Roy Mustang as Married Before The Eyes of The Law.  You   
may seal this agreement with a kiss."  
    Before Roy could take Edward in his arms, his new husband grabbed Roy by his cravat,   
yanked him close and planted a suffocating lip lock on the surprised President that lasted so long   
several people began to worry that Roy might die of asphyxiation before his wedding night. Roy   
retaliated by snapping the cord that bound Ed's hair up so that it tumbled down his back and   
partially obscured their faces.   
    When they came up for air, they stood locked in a warm embrace for nearly as long as   
they had kissed.  Ed whispered in Roy's ear, "love you, old man."  
    "Love you too, Now," he added seductively. "Let's greet our friends, cut the cake and then   
get the hell out of here. We have another hospital bed to destroy."  
    'Yeah," Ed punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Be sure to put down 'extra butter' on   
your dinner tray sheet once they get you in a room. Something tells me we're gonna need it…."  
  
  
….TO BE CONTINUED…  
      
      
  



	35. THE TERRIBLE AND THE NECESSARY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For years, Hawkeye and Havoc have been a couple--but the events surrounding Roy and Edward's marriage have reopened an old obsession for Riza--and Roy resolves to put a stop to it once and for all by 'doing what is terrible and necessary".....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 35: THE TERRIBLE AND THE NECESSARY

BY THE BINARY ALCHEMIST 2014

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Shhhh, Tinker…don’t---“

            “---do _you_ understand, Nitwit? Do you?” He stared after his father’s retreating back, noting how Ed’s shoulders had slumped and the look of grim resignation as he closed the door of Roy’s hospital room behind him.

            There was something so sad in the expression on Uncle Alphonse’s face. They knew that Al had been spending time with both Riza and Jean, hoping to reconcile them. But both young people had seen Hawkeye shove Edward out of the way when Roy had been shot, clutching him and crying over him. Once everything had calmed down, the two had mentally digested that piece of information. Both of them found it disturbing. When Ed had ushered them out of the hospital room, it confused them. “Roy and the Colonel are going to have a….debriefing. I’m gonna get some coffee. Be right back.” He walked a few steps and paused. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed, okay?”

 

            In the coffee shop, Ed ran into Peta Lobachevsky, Prince Sheng, Collins and Elycia. Before he could escape, Peta ran up and flung her arms around him, thanking him over and over in Amestrian and in Drachman, while Prince Sheng bowed low. “What the hell---?”

            “Al just told us the good news—Sheng Yao and Peta have been offered teaching positions at the Hohenheim,” Elycia exclaimed, clapping her hands. “He said Uncle Roy wanted to thank them for helping him, and that you had said that it was a shame that they were not getting a chance to do what they do best because their fathers---“ she glanced at the prince, stopping before inadvertently insulting the Emperor, who seemed to regard his talented ninth son as nothing more than a bright administrator and secretary.

            Ed smiled faintly and gently extricated himself from Peta’s enthusiastic hug. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he told her. “Besides, you’re gonna _hate_ working for me. I’m an asshole. Just ask Ruby. Al’s the nice guy.”

            Collins step discreetly to Ed’s side. “Sir….is everything all right? How is the President?”

            The smile faded. “He’s got something he has to do. Something… _necessary.”_

#####

            She had followed Roy to the hospital. She was not surprised that he eschewed the ambulance, riding in his private car, accompanied by his family. Alphonse had followed separately, and she noted that the young Xingese prince and the water alchemist from Drachma had joined him, along with the two Hughes women.

            She had settled down in the arm chair in his room, sitting stiffly at attention, and while Maes and Nina acknowledged her, they gave her quizzical looks, as if they didn’t understand why she needed to be there.

            Edward ignored her completely—until Roy had changed into his pajamas in the bathroom and she bent to gather them up and fold them neatly.

            The cold anger in Edward’s eyes made her stop. She stepped aside. He shouldered past her, snatched the pile off the floor and he shoved the garments in the drawer, not even bothering to fold them or hang them up. When he turned around, Ed’s eyes captured hers, silently daring her to object.

            Eventually, Ed drew the curtain around the bed and she heard them talking softly to one another. There was a heavy sigh from Roy. “All right, Ed. Whatever is necessary.”

            And Edward left, taking the family with him. She looked away when they kissed.

Now they were…

Alone.,,,

_“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”._ Roy headed for the bathroom, and she stopped herself before she asked him if he needed any help.

In the hall outside she heard Havoc. He sounded angry. Alphonse was leading him away, lowering his voice. Should she….?

No. Roy needed her. Ed had left him and gone off with his children. What if Roy needed someone to----

He stood in the bathroom doorway, wearing only his dressing gown. Very pale. Very serious. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

For long moments he stared at her. Then he offered her the ghost of a smile.

_“Let’s talk.”_

#####

            _All this goddamned happy chatter around me….these kids….they don’t have a clue what’s going on._

_Something terrible. Something terrible and necessary._

_And I really don’t care what the hell happens. It won’t change us—me and Roy. But it has to be over. This has to be done._

_She’s my friend. She Auntie Ree to my kids. Roy can’t function without her._

_That’s three times she’s broken over him._

_She shoved me away from my man—at my own damn wedding._

_Roy’s always been a free man. He made his choice._

_And now….he’s going to force her to choose…._

_“These are the words of the desert poets: ‘your task, Edward and Roy, is to not to seek for love from one another, but instead to seek and find all the barriers within yourselves that you have built against it. Let yourselves be silently drawn to the stronger wisdom of what you truly honor in one another. And think not that you can direct the course of this love—for love, when it finds you worthy, directs your course.”_

The coffee in his cup was cold and bitter. Thankfully, Edward’s heart was not.

#####

            “Wha….wh…?”

            Her composure had abandoned her.

            “Come here.” He laid his hand on the mattress. “Sit. _Please_.”

            Why wouldn’t her legs obey her? All her adult life she had been within reach, but he had never reached for her. He had wept over her when he thought she was dying, had held her tightly….and….

            ….and called her _Lieutenant._

            _Subordinate._

            There was a bond between them. Unbreakable. Die for her? She wouldn’t doubt it. Did he love her? Yes….but—

            How many shades of emotions are there? Where was the difference? What nuance of the heart drew the line between them that said ‘this close but no closer’?

            And here he was, naked beneath his hospital robe, pale and beautiful and so serious, calling her—finally—to his side. After all these years….

            “ _Riza_. Please.”

            _Now he says these words_.

            She felt sick. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. They suddenly felt icy and slick with sweat. Everything within her screamed ‘ _move! Move!_ ” She was frozen. If she tried to rise, tried to come to his side she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

            Her body was frozen. Her mouth dry as the sands of the Eastern desert. She blinked and stared at him. Those dark brows knitted and there was a desperation in his eyes.

            One word, she could manage. _”Sir?”_

            “This is not going to go away, is it, Riza?” He rose slowly. She closed her eyes. His naked feet made no sound but she could tell when he was standing in front of her by the sound of his breath and the scent of sandalwood and cinders that clung to his skin. “So I’m giving in.”

            There was a terrible resignation in his voice. He laid his hand gently on her cheek. It was cold, but it did not tremble. “This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve thrown away my friend for—a damn good man, better than I am in ways I can’t even begin to describe. This is why you literally— _literally_ —came between me and Edward today. I can’t let that happen again. I can’t let you hurt yourself anymore.”

            “I’m not hurting myself---“

            “—I am prepared to do anything it takes—even this---if it will end it. If you…if I try to give you what you think you want….” His voice trailed off.

            She didn’t move. She didn’t open her eyes. He sighed heavily. “Do you have any idea how important your friendship is—what it means to have to lose it? It hurts like hell. Because if we do this---that friendship ends. Because we will not be able to look one another in the face again. Because this isn’t about unrequited love. This is about curing an obsession. If you get what you think you want, I guarantee you will not want it anymore. I love your soul…your strength of character, your courage and your faith in me. I do not love this obsession. I hate what it has done to you. I have never encouraged it. I don’t know how to stop it.

            “It’s my wedding day. I’ve sent my husband away—with his full consent and understanding—so I can give you what you think you want. And I have to tell you that by comparison, being shot hurt one hell of a lot less that this. But….I’ll try. Because of Edward. Because of a promise I made to him, that this obsession of yours will not come between us again.

            “Do you remember the day in the underground tunnels with Envy? When I told you to go ahead and shoot….and then I asked you what you would do with your life afterwards? _I was trying to hurt you_. I was throwing it in your face, your whole obsession with me. It was cruel. At that moment, it was the worst thing I could say to you—and then you told me you’d kill yourself over me. Do you know what it is to live with that burden? Even my husband---my children—wouldn’t do that. They know—they _know_ , Riza!—I don’t want that. It’s insane, even talking about throwing your life away like that.

            “Today…that was it. You shoved Ed away from me. You put yourself on the duty roster for my honeymoon. You invited yourself into this room when I wanted to be with my family. I wanted to be alone with Ed—and now I have to send him away, and---“

            Tears began to drip down her cheeks. She still wouldn’t look at him.

            He reached for her hand. “Now or never, Hawkeye. The door’s locked. Ed is staying away and I don’t think Havoc’s coming back….I could be wrong, though. All these years, he’s never given up on you…but nobody’s going to see. Nobody’s going to know. It’s up to you. Your choice. Tell me what you want….”

#####

            At ten pm, there was a loud crash on the third floor.

            At 10:04 Dr. Owen Knox was staring at the wreckage in the hallway. Every guard or soldier within the perimeter was crouching, guns drawn. Nobody moved.

            Knox kicked his way through the rubble and broken plaster to stare at the damage.

            “There’s….a _hole._ In…the wall.” He rubbed his chin, his brain trying to wrap itself around this fact. A fact that should have been impossible. _“A hole.”_

            Alphonse appeared at his elbow. “Yup,” he nodded.

            “Alphonse…there’s a hole in my hospital.” His mouth was having trouble shaping the words. “Why…. _why_ …is there a hole in my hospital?”

            And then he was knocked flat on his ass by a flying hospital bed, traveling roughly about five kilometers an hour. Then it disappeared.

            Knox struggled to his knees. The bed swung back and flattened him again.

And again.

            Alphonse dragged him to safety before any more teeth were loosened by the impact. “This _really_ isn’t as bad as it looks, sir…”

            Dr. Knox staggered through the doorway. He adjusted his glasses. Rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not hallucinating. Then his left fist connected with Alphonse’ jaw.

            The massive 226.7 kilo hospital bed was designed to roll. It was not designed for flight. The ceiling joist above his head hadn’t _exactly_ been rated as a full load bearing structure. _“What the hell---?”_

            Alphonse clapped the doctor on the shoulder. “It’s _amazing_ what an alchemist can do with a little ingenuity and a good working understanding of---“ he ducked another punch, “---engineering.”

            Four feet off the floor, the bed swung to a stop. It appeared to be suspended from hardened steel chains formed from the bedrails, the bedside tray and the President’s bedpan

. A grinning, naked Edward Elric stuck his head out from under what appeared to be several blankets and Roy Mustang’s hip. He waved cheerfully. “”Hey, Doc! Did Al ever tell ya the one about the mythic Xingese Concubine Basket Fuck??”

From the other end of the bed, the President of Amestris popped his head out from under the covers. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

_“Myth confirmed.”_

 

….TO BE CONTINUED…

           

 


	36. THE CHOICE AND THE CHOSEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang has always been the Master Manipulator--but this time two futures are at stake, for two of the most significant people in his life:his husband, Edward Elric, and his right hand woman, Riza Hawkeye...everything is riding on the outcome....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 36: “THE CHOICE AND THE CHOSEN”

By The Binary Alchemist 2014

            There were softer pillows in the cabin. Roy wouldn’t have swapped even if he could have mustered up enough energy to crawl over and snag one off the bed. His present pillow might be hard but it was warm, wonderfully ripped, and made satisfied noises whenever he turned his head to kiss or nuzzle it.

            “Huh. If you asked me when I was twelve what I thought of you,” his pillow chuckled, “I coulda summed you up in one sentence: ‘I hate the bastard.” A hand swept down and smoothed the heavy black fringe from Roy’s sweaty forehead. “I wanna edit that.”

            “Hmn?”

            “Yeah. Change that to….’I _ate_ the bastard’. With _champagne_. “Roy heard a gurgle under his ear and Ed burped impressively.

            “Such a gentleman,” Roy chided gently. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or disgusted.” He gave Ed’s belly a playful nip and the two lapsed back into a warm and comfortable silence, sprawled contentedly on the massive bearskin rug that the Curtis’s had given them for a wedding present, Izumi arranging for it to be delivered to the secluded cabin they would share for a week. It was not until after Roy had snapped up a blaze in the fireplace, stripped Ed and hauled him down onto the rug before the fire for an inspired hour long mutual blow job that he realized with a cringe that Izumi and Sig had undoubtedly christened the rug in much the same manner. He had the tact not to mention this to his new husband. If the thought—or, worse, the mental image—of that sort of coital activity going on ever entered his mind, Ed would have levitated five feet off the pelt and rocketed, naked, out the door, yelping in horror. Which, Roy decided, would be a damn shame, since the warm fur was a marvelous thing to roll around on with one’s husband.

            Right now, a very trying and emotionally exhausting day was ending in the best way possible. He was content, well fed, well loved—and the drama of the day was finally over….

            But still….

            There were some things Roy Mustang would not gamble on.

            Pressing his cheek against Ed’s abdomen, he closed his eyes. “You didn’t ask me what happened with Hawkeye.”

            A hand curled around his bare shoulder. “Don’t care.” A log crackled and crumbled in two on the hearth. The hand idly rubbed Roy’s neck. “Doesn’t matter. You made a choice. You’re here. You’d still be in there if this wasn’t done with her. End of story.”

            “Ed---“

            Edward sat up, shifting, until Roy’s head was in his lap. “I said it doesn’t matter. If it did,” he passed the half-empty champagne bottle to his husband, “I wouldn’t be still wearing this ring. But….if you need to talk about it---“

            “—yeah.” Roy sighed heavily. “Yeah, I do…..”

 

####                

            He had reached for her hand. “It’s now or never, Hawkeye,” he repeated. He was absolutely serious, and there was absolutely no trace of warmth in his expression.            

            Take her to bed? He might as well have been offering to take her to a court martial, for all the enthusiasm he was displaying. His expression was grim, his body tense. He was pale as a phantom and the hand he offered her was cold when it touched her fingers.

            She flinched. It was instinctual, like drawing back from some wild creature that might turn and bite without warning. “I….I don’t…please…”

            The hand withdrew. The dark eyes searched hers. “This is ‘no’?” He frowned. “After all these years?”

            Her face burned. “You don’t want this. You…don’t…want…” She couldn’t finish.

            “Did I ever say I did?”

            She became angry. “All those women—there were so many—“

            “Damn right there were.” He lifted his chin and something strange and painful flickered in his eyes. “And when I was sitting in the dark at home with a bottle and my regrets, not one of them crossed my mind. Ever.” He held her gaze for what seemed like an eternity. “It was always Hughes. My love of my country---and Hughes.” One hand scrubbed at his face wearily, and she remembered that he’d had a bullet dug out of him only hours ago—and yet he had determined that this discussion was more important than rest—more important than healing or being cared for by his…   

            _….husband._

            She almost said the word aloud. Another word pushed past it on the way to her lips. “Homosexual.”

            “I believe that’s the first time I have ever heard you say it out loud.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And partially correct. Ever heard of the _Way of the White Dragon_? No?” His smile deepened. “No…no reason to expect you would, even though it was your father who allowed me to read it. Guess he read me as well as any other book in his library. Ancient text on the nature of sexual alchemy—and the sexual nature of alchemists. ‘ _An alchemic master, knowing he contains both male and female polarities within himself, may choose to embrace both natures equally. The way of enlightenment seeks the balance within oneself of all opposites in mind and soul and body.’_ _And,” he added, “the correct term—at least in my particular case—would be_ _‘pansexual’_ _.” His hand lifted in an emphatic gesture. “And you’ve known this as long as you’ve known me. It has never been discussed because_ _it was never relevant to our professional relationship.”_

            Hawkeye shook her head. Of course she knew he had had male lovers, at least two, but… “The women!” She could feel a cold fury in the pit of her stomach. “All those women you---you were---“

            “Sleep with them? Indeed.” Was that a touch of smug pride on his face? “I don’t expect you to be an authority on the subject, but I assure you, not _every_ man who sleeps with men breaks out in hives at the thought of sleeping with a woman. _Pansexuality,_ I said. I enjoyed it. I made damn certain that they enjoyed it too. I am not a monster. For the most part it was for business, yes. Information, influence. But it was not without pleasure. Theirs and mine, and as in all other areas I choose to excel in, I assure you, I am a gentleman to my core, and they enjoyed themselves a great deal, however brief the association.”

            Her jaw dropped open. He lifted his hand to silence her. “Which begs the question _: why not you?”_

            She stared at him, unable to pull her words together—whether from anger or shame, she was damned if she knew.

            “You, Colonel Riza Hawkeye, have a most unique and precious place in my life. Utterly irreplaceable.

            “And it is not—and never has been—in my bed. I regret you ever thought otherwise, and it is no reflection on you as a woman. You are my ally, my right hand and I depend upon you. A person who is that important to me….your gender is _irrelevant_.

            “You are an extraordinary person. The fact that you are a woman has no bearing on this whatsoever.” He studied her for a moment and added, “If you’re wise, you’ll take that as the high praise it’s meant to be--”

            “…oh…”

            “---and get on with your life. You’ve wasted enough time mooning over me like some lovesick schoolgirl.” He began to examine his fingernails, as if searching for any imagined flaw, his expression cool and oddly nonchalant.” Pity Havoc requested that transfer to Stoltovgrad. “He paused for effect, noting with some inner satisfaction that she recoiled from his words as if she’d been slapped. “He didn’t tell you?” He shrugged. “Professor Lobachevsky came to Central for the wedding but he is heading right on out east tonight to the Xerxes ruins with an alchemic archaeology team. He’s intrigued by what Sheng Yao told him about the baskets of old scrolls on healing alchemy Sheng’s been working to translate in whatever spare time Ling allows his son. He requested a military escort as far as Briggs to make sure Peta arrives back in Stoltovgrad—which isn’t going to happen. She’s staying in Central to teach at my personal request. Havoc,” he smirked, “has the unenviable duty of explaining to the Professor why his daughter refused to come back home---oh, and to deliver a shipment of---“

            He kept chattering on and on, as if anything else coming out of his mouth held any meaning for Riza Hawkeye beyond the words ‘requested a transfer to Stoltovgrad’. Somewhere under her uniform jacket, her heart began to beat perilously fast.

            “---and of course General Armstrong said he was lazy and incompetent, but if Havoc was the best man I could manage to scrape up at last minute she’d have to make do with a dimwit for now. Granted, Havoc might not be _sharpest_ bayonet in the armory, but---“

            The hand that cracked against the left side of Roy Mustang’s face struck the President with impressive force, the full fury of Riza Hawkeye’s anger behind it.

            “---I’m sure he will do his best to try to perform up to her exacting standards. He’s not exactly a kid anymore—“

            She struck his face again.

            “---and now that Maes and Nina are practically grown, they tell me they’re getting tired of him hanging around Rose Hill when they are both capable of protecting themselves with al---“

            And _again_ …

            “---chemy. Really, I’m going to be hard pressed to keep him busy until he’s finally old enough to retire. He’s hardly colonel material---“

            And _again…_

“Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “accompanied by one of my senior officers—someone with …I don’t know…a better work ethic and some maturity and command experience…he might just make something out of himself.” His voice dropped down into a persuasive purr. “ _What do you think, Colonel Hawkeye?”_

#####  

                “You lied.”

            “I _exaggerated._ Havoc would only be gone for about two weeks. Back in time for my testimony in the war crimes inquiry. Asked me for leave to sort things out in his head. “

            “And you _let_ her knock the crap out of you?”

            “Repeatedly.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully. “Al came down to the coffee shop to get you, but only after he and Sheng Yao had worked on me first. The Colonel has a very respectable backhand. I am lucky she didn’t dislocate my jaw. Would have put a serious damper on your love life, Ed.”

            “But…. _why_?”

            “I did it for her.” Roy took a deep swallow from the champagne bottle, his eyes on the flames licking over a log that had just begun to smolder. “Same reason I let you punch me out in the alley for allegedly incinerating Maria Ross.”

            “Because you’re a manipulative son of a bitch who will say and do anything he has to to get the job done?”                                 

            “She’s not perched in a tree outside with a scope rifle and a broken heart, is she? Should be halfway to Briggs by now on the last flight out this week. _Both_ of them.” He nodded decisively. “You don’t tell a woman she’s wasted years of her life on a romantic obsession and expect to get off scot free. Getting a few bruises was worth it. Now she can get on with her life. They _both_ can.”

#####

                “It’s a fracture,” Prince Sheng pronounced, running his fingers along Roy’s jawline. “Hairline, no worse. Amestrian diplomacy,” he sighed. “Very confusing to me.”

            Roy winced as he was examined, his expression changing to one of relief as the soft, cooling light arced and shimmered from the young man’s fingertips. He gingerly touched his jaw and was relieved that the pain was almost completely gone. “Thank you, Highness.”

            The dark eyed man shook his head. “The title is not needed away from my father’s august presence. Hopefully, thanks to your generous offer, one day soon you may address me as Doctor Yao. That, to me, carries more honor than any fortune brought by an accident of birth.” Sheng Yao bowed to Roy and to Alphonse. “Is there anything else I may assist you with? I have offered to escort Miss Lobachevsky and Miss Nina back to some place called Il Gattina for Amestrian coffee---and something called a ‘Kookie Kat’?”

            Roy waved him away. “Go have fun with the girls. Tell my daughter I’m fine—and so is her Aunt Riza. Now, Al,” Roy turned to his brother in law, “I’m getting out of here. Tonight. I don’t give a damn what Knox says. This whole day has been a goddamned circus. I just want to get Ed down to the cabin and forget about the last hour.”

            “And getting shot,” All added with a nod. “Knox is pretty dead set against letting you go.”

            “I can agree with his point of view…to a small degree,” Sheng observed. “However, I have examined you. I believe my judgment to be accurate when I say you appear to need little more than rest and, perhaps, quiet relaxation in the company of your husband. Or, “he smiled warmly, “not so quiet. In fact, some moderate exercise could be beneficial.”

            “The horizontal kind,” Al grinned.

            “Guess the only way Knox is going to let me out is if he throws me out,” Roy grumbled. “Any ideas?”

            The young prince and Alphonse exchanged glances. They murmured together, nodding. “We must consider the structural integrity of the ceiling beams—“

            “We can compensate. And,” Al surveyed the hospital room, “I _think_ we have enough steel to work with. “ He regarded Roy carefully. “You don’t have any issues with motion sickness, do you?”

#####  

            “Sick,” Ed pronounced. “My brother is a very, very disturbed man.”

            “Got us out of there, didn’t it? Actually it was Sheng’s idea—the whole Basket Fuck thing. After all, a boy raised in a harem of concubines can get a very diverse education.”

            “No wonder you like the kid,” Ed laughed. “Got a lot in common, you two.”

            “Indeed. Now if you don’t mind, it’s getting cold in here. I’ll--- _owww!_ ” His hand curled around his left cheek and he grimaced. “Lying too long on the side of my face where I got flattened.”

            Ed looked concerned. “Let’s get you a couple of aspirins. Where’s the first aid kit?”

            “Outside with the guards. Never mind,” he waved off Ed’s concern. “Just…maybe, no more blowjobs for a couple of days, okay?”

            “No…. _blowjobs???”_ The disappointment on Ed’s face was downright comical. Roy struggled to keep from laughing out loud.”

            “Well, Sheng _did_ mention that he’d done the best he could in one treatment. A little more healing alchemy and the pain---“

            “Shut up and lie still!”

            _Relax,_ Ed ordered himself. This was different than his lifelong understanding of alchemy. He tried to visualize the transmutation circle he had held in his mind every other time in his life. _Nothing_. There was no formula he could mentally repeat, as when he tried to imagine himself to be a Philosopher’s Stone consisting of a single soul in Briggs. When it had happened earlier—when he’d had that strange breakthrough, he had been furious and frustrated over his inability to help Roy like the other alchemists around him….that wasn’t such a good idea. Trying to do _anything_ with a head full of furious thoughts wouldn’t help anybody in the end, he was fairly certain.

            He was beginning to sweat. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, focusing only on his own breathing and his concern over Roy’s pain….

            It seemed as if the warmth from the fireplace was expanding somehow to include him…no, not like a fireplace….it felt like lying in a grassy meadow in early spring, the comfort of the sunshine soaking into him, making him feel like winter was finally over for good. He thought fleetingly of home, imagining that first sunny afternoon after the snow had finally melted away, his mother Tricia singing softly to herself while hanging the laundry out on the line, spotting Ed stretched out on the grass and putting the basket down, coming over to join him. He could hear her soft laughter as she stretched out beside her son, pulling him into a hug that smelt of her soft brown hair and the gingerbread she had been baking before she came out side.

            _“Mom….”_

_Her arms enfolded him. Her love surrounded him. He felt like a parched desert and her love was the blessed sweet rain bringing him to life again…_

_No. Not just his mother…_

_All of them were there, smiling and reaching out to him between the doors of a Gateway that shimmered like pearl and ivory, and the Truth that stood to meet him was his own Self—Edward Elric—whole, healed and smiling. Pinako. Hughes. Nina Tucker. Auntie Sarah and Uncle Urey. And, standing to one side, looking on with such pride in his face, was his father, Hohenheim._

_The father he had once despised so much was drawing a symbol on the shining surface of the Gate. A three dimensional spiral that triggered some distant memory….something Ed had seen somewhere in his lifetime of research but had dismissed as insignificant._

_Truth nodded in approval, then gestured towards its leg—the leg Edward had left behind on the day he ransomed his brother from the Gateway. “About time you figured this out, Edward Elric. Now, listen closely:_

_“This is the Truth about the Self….all power that ever was, or ever will be is here now…you are an expression of that power that sustains all…through you wisdom takes form through thought and word…through Understanding of this perfect law, you are guided in each moment to the path of Liberation and Enlightenment…There is no limitation. You shall draw from this limitlessness all things needful that you may restore balance and equilibrium…”_

_On and on and on it went. One perfect statement of Truth after another. Not the knowledge to transmute matter—the knowledge to transmute Edward Elric into someone who just might—someday—heal a lifetime of hurts he had inflicted upon himself and learn to use that Truth to help heal others…**_

“The Grand Arcanum…..” he breathed...

 

            When he opened his eyes, Roy was sitting up and grinning at him.

            Dazed, Ed blinked, as if not fully aware of his surroundings. Then he noticed the smug smirk on Mustang’s face, pleased with himself for manipulating yet another person he cared about into getting over an obsession—in Ed’s case, his firm belief that his work as an alchemist was long behind him.

            “Why…you sorry son of a---“

            “It worked, didn’t it?”

            Ed’s fist swung out and connected with the _right_ side of Roy’s face.

            “Equivalent Exchange,” Ed crowed triumphantly. “I still got the hang of it.”

...TO BE CONTINUED….

**AN: adapted freely from “The Pattern On The Trestleboard” by Paul Foster Case

 


	37. "LIAR, LIAR"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphonse reluctantly interrupts Roy and Ed's honeymoon in a remote cabin in the woods with bacon, beer and a message Roy has been secretly dreading from Colonel Riza Hawkeye....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 37: “LIAR, LIAR”

By The Binary Alchemist, 2014

 

            The guard on point this morning, Charley, let him in, shaking his head as Alphonse signed his clipboard. “At _this_ hour? You got a death wish or something?”

            Alphonse slapped the side of the crate strapped into the side car of his nephew’s motorcycle. “No. I’ve got a telegram for the President…and breakfast from Il Gattina. Enough for everybody, and more ice for the coolers.”

            “You wouldn’t happen to have any beer in there, would you?”

            The younger Elric grinned innocently. “I didn’t want the ice and sandwich stuff to get lonely. How are they holding up?”

            Charley, who had fought for and beside Roy Mustang since Ishbal, tapped the side of his pointed nose and smothered a grin. _“Loud.”_

“As in…breaking chairs over each other’s head…or….?”

            “—oh, they’re breaking furniture in there, all right. We’re using the busted bed slats for kindling.” Charley whistled softly in admiration. “I mean, he’s fifty years old. How does he---?”

            Alphonse tossed Charley a mock salute. “That, as they say, is a military secret!” Chuckling, he gunned his engine and roared up the muddy trail to the cabin where, no doubt, his older brother and his brother in law were giving the mattress another gleeful pounding…..

###

            “I can’t move.”

            “I can’t _breathe_. Goddamn it, you’re _heavy_. Shift over or something.”

            Roy groaned in protest. “I _said_ I can’t move.” From this angle, face pressed into the pillows, Ed couldn’t see the smirk on his husband’s face. “The technical term for this condition is A.F. O--- _all fucked out._ I can’t move—in fact, I don’t believe I can even muster up the stamina to pull out.”

            “And of course this is somehow _my_ fault?”

            “The swing was your idea, wasn’t it?” A trickle of sweat rolled off the end of Roy’s nose and dripped annoyingly into Ed’s right ear. “I had to do all the work.”

            “ _Well…technically_. Yeah. But—“

            “—but nothing! You should have thought up some counter-weight system to keep the damn thing moving, instead of making _me_ \---“

            “—quit bitching! You were getting off on it. And I think—I think—I could rig something up for the house---“

            “That officially counts as an attempted presidential assassination. Don’t even think about it.”

            “Ah, get off my back!”

            Roy raised himself up on his elbows and considered his options. It was daybreak. He was hungry. And there were a couple of aspirins in the first aid kit that would do his strained muscles a world of good, washed down with a mug of fresh brewed coffee.

            On the other hand…he was still lodged deeply into somewhere so maddeningly warm and tight that he might—possibly—have enough stamina to get things going one more time, provided Ed was---

            “Whoa! Are you—?”

            “Mmmm….maybe.”

            “Well,” Ed cautioned, “if I don’t get my face out of this pile of pillows, you’re gonna be fuckin’ a dead man.”

            “Running into a dead end, you mean?”

            “You’re such a smartass. Hang on. I’m gonna flip us over.”

            “Wait! I—“

            “I _said_ hang on! _Urrrufffff!!”_ Roy was now flat on his back with Ed’s full weight on his chest. Struggling, Ed managed to haul himself into a sitting position without disengaging, and while he’d much rather be gazing into his husband’s face instead of staring at Roy’s feet, the shift in angle inside him sent bright sparks across his visual field and made him shudder. “Uhhh… _damn_!” He squirmed down, swiveling his hips. “That’s good.”

            “You…nearly…broke it..off, you idiot.” Sore muscles momentarily forgotten, Roy’s strong hands gripped Ed’s hips and he spread his thighs, planted his feet on the mattress for better traction and began to arch up into paradise. “Stroke it for me…I can’t reach you.”

            Hooking one arm around Roy’s upraised knee for support, Ed’s free hand clenched and squeezed. Some small corner of his brain, not half melted with pleasure as he stroked and rocked, recognized that _things are changing._ Since the startling rediscovery of his alchemy he had become keenly aware that he was _awake_ again, as if he had spent the intervening years since the Promised Day sleep walking, dazed and numb. He hadn’t felt this alert and energetic in years—but this wasn’t the living-on-the-nerve’s-edge of his boyhood. No, this was different—colors and sound seemed more vivid, his mind was sharper than ever--even his food tasted different. He was ravenous and, holy shit, whenever Roy touched him---

            _BANG! BANGBANG!_ “Hey, you guys! It’s me, Alphonse!”

            Ed squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the distraction. Roy’s hands were caressing his sweaty back and making him shiver, and the hard cock inside him was churning Ed’s brains to pudding. He was close and judging from the primal growls he could hear behind him Roy was shifting into overdrive. If he hadn’t had his husband pinned down in this position Roy would be driving Ed’s back into the mattress , ankles over shoulders. The flimsy slats supporting the camp bed would crack and splinter, and the thin pad would buckle and they would finish each other once again in an undignified tangle on the cabin floor, bruised and laughing--

            “Breakfast time!” Al sang out from the porch. _BANG! BANG!_ “Hey, come on, guys! You two have to come up for air _sometime_!”

            Ed was about to snarl out a death threat to his little brother when Alphonse shouted the three words that probably spared his life:

            “I’ve got _bacon._ ”

####

            “Ed, don’t eat the enamel off the tinware. There’s more food where that came from.” Roy glanced over at Alphonse, who nodded, pouring fresh batter on the griddle over the campfire and plopped another egg into the bacon grease in his skillet. “Nice of you to cater breakfast, Al.”

            “Nice of you,” Ed mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, “to show up at the fuckin’ crack of dawn and wake a guy up—“

            “C’mon, Ed—you were already up—“

            “— _literally_ ,” Roy affirmed.

            “—and I knew you wouldn’t want to wait for this, Roy.” Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed the older man a sealed telegram. “I had strict instructions from the Colonel not to hold this until you guys came home.”

            Ed and Roy exchanged glances. Ed frowned. “Do we need to go into hiding?”

            Roy snatched the flimsy envelope out of Al’s hand. “Shut up, Ed!” He studied it for a moment, then stuffed it in his pocket before turning to Alphonse. “Borrowing your bike.” He nodded to Edward. “Don’t drink all the beer _._ I might need one when I get back…or six…or more, if….”

Ed touched his arm. “Hey…if you—“

            Roy nodded again. “Yeah. Thanks.”

            And he was gone….

 

####

`           “Hughes. Been awhile, huh?”

            Settling his back against a tree, Roy stared off, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He knew that some cultures—in Xing, for example—people constructed elaborate shrines and burned incense when invoking their honored dead. Roy never bothered. At the most, he might poor a shot of whiskey on the ground, but it usually did him more good just to toss it down his own throat if he wanted to talk to his best friend.

            “I’m an asshole. You know it, I know it…hell, Ed’s known it since the day we met. Always thinking I know what’s best for others—always pulling the damn strings. And, y’know….most of the time I’ve been right.” He pulled the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and stared at it. “ _And when I’m wrong…_ ”

            He tore the envelope open. He stared at the three lines that must have cost a small fortune to send from the ass-end of rural Drachma—what was that place? Komarovo? Ed had said they didn’t even have flushable toilets and there was only one telephone in the whole damn village…but that had been fifteen years ago. Still, somebody had pulled some strings to get this message to Roy Mustang.

            He took a deep breath and unfolded the telegram:

 

            _“Sir:_

_With respect, you are a shitty liar. Nice try, though. You can foot the bill for our reception when we get home._

_—Mr. and Mrs. Jean Havoc”_

           

…TO BE CONTINUED….

 

 


	38. RIZA'S CHOICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally recognizing how much the ever-patient Havoc truly means to her, Riza and Jean return home from Drachma to a belated wedding reception hosted by Roy, Ed and their family…a moment of joy and celebration before the storm of the Ishballan War Crimes hearings…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sabrage—or the art of ‘sabering’ a champagne bottle is a real practice, dating back to the days of Napoleon—and can be really dangerous. Don’t try this at home!

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 38: RIZA’S CHOICE

By The Binary Alchemist, 2014

 

 

            “ _WHAT???”_

Maes Elric leaned against the doorjamb to Ed’s office. “ _I said_ , ‘Pops is whacking off with a bottle of champagne’.” He grinned as his father’s chin dropped about a meter. “Figured you might wanna know about that.” He stifled a chuckle. “Before the _press_ does. Or Winchell. _Whatever._ ”

            Ed nearly knocked the young man backwards as he shot through the door, heading for the garden. “Sonovabitch!” he growled. “Has he lost his fuckin’ _mind?_ ” Roy had lost it once before under extreme duress…but that had been over Hughes. All the President had on his plate tonight was the wedding reception for Riza and Jean and—

            _And what? Does he expect her to call him out at her own party and give him hell for making an ass of her, calling her bluff, offering to sleep with her to help her get over him?_

“Asshole!” Ed considered Roy’s blunder aloud as he swung down the stairs. “If I were Hawkeye, I’d want to beat the crap out of him in public, too…”

###

            True, Roy and Ed had personally met the newlyweds this morning at the aerodrome and Roy’s apologies to her had been heartfelt and sincere---well, as sincere as you could _expect_ from a master manipulator like Mustang. He had driven them to the Grand Central Hotel where the beautifully appointed Bridal Suite awaited them, along with iced champagne, flowers, hand-dipped strawberry truffles and round-the-clock room service for the weekend of their stay.

            Havoc had grinned around his cigarette. “You’re not doing this as a tax write-off, are you, Chief?” He poured his bride a tall glass of bubbly. “Pretty damn spiffy.”

            As for the bride herself…she was…. _different_. For the first time in all the many years that Edward Elric had known Riza Hawkeye, her eyes did not follow Roy Mustang’s every move. No, those cognac eyes were clear and bright and when they met the keen blue eyes of Jean Havoc Ed saw the Colonel’s expression soften with what genuinely appeared to be affection and contentment.

 

 

            “You’re a real dick sometimes,” Ed told his husband as they drove back to Rose Hill. “You came off luckier than you deserve. I think they’re gonna be happy at last.”

            “Of course I’m a dick sometimes,” Roy answered smoothly, admiring himself briefly in the rear view mirror. “A _nice_ guy would have kept his mouth shut and kept on letting her hurt herself and she’d have let the better man get away while mooning over the guy who’s a dick. Am I right?”

 

            Roy _had_ been right, of course, and for much of the early afternoon Jean and Riza had received friends in their suite, retiring around 3pm to rest up and get ready for the reception at six. Ed turned his thoughts away with a shudder from any other type of ‘resting up’ the couple might engage in. Somehow the thought of Hawkeye having sex made him feel a little squeamish, rather like confronting the truth that his parents had actually, at some point, taken off their clothing and gotten sweaty together to make him and Alphonse. He imagined that Maes and Nina probably felt the same way about their own begetting, and while neither kid had ever walked in on Ed and Roy defiling any office furniture, the sly humor in his son’s tone as he announced that his stepfather was ‘whacking off’ in the garden meant that the little brat was not so oblivious to their sexual gymnastics as Ed might have hoped….

 

###

            “Take a memo.”

Ed glared at Collins, elegant in his new scarlet Hohenheim Institute waistcoat. The young butler had been called back to Rose Hill by Roy and promoted to Ed’s new personal assistant and secretary, replacing Ed’s long time nemesis, Ruby. After the events of their wedding day, Roy had wanted to reward the young man for his bravery and cool head in a crisis, and when approached, Ruby willingly swapped jobs with Collins, expressing no hesitation whatsoever.

Collins drew a pen and pad from inside his jacket. “Sir?”

“Remind me to kill my kid.”

Collins suppressed a droll smile. “Preferred _method_ , Sir?”

Ed shot an annoyed glance towards his firstborn who was, unfortunately, too big to spank. “Something _humiliating_. I’ll give it some thought later.”

“Very good, Professor.”

“You wanna fill me in on what the hell is going on?”

“ _Sabrage.”_

“Huh?”

Sebastian offered the President a white linen serviette and a clean pair of gloves. _“Sabrage,”_ the Major Domo intoned. “The Aerogoan custom of opening a bottle of champagne with one’s saber or other edged weapon. An elegant practice that requires knowledge, skill, good aim---“

“---and,” Maes gestured at the puddle of spilled wine and broken glass at Roy’s feet, “lots of _practice._ Hell, Pops, why didn’t you try whacking off _before_ the day of the reception?”

Ed folded his arms and leaned against the old cherry tree that had flowered spectacularly at their wedding less than a fortnight ago. Thanks to whatever the hell the Tringham brothers had done with their green alchemy, the whole parkland and estate was miraculously blooming again. “This was what you meant by ‘whacking off with champagne, son?” He shook his head. “As your sister would say, I’m _underwhelmed._ ”

“Shut up, all of you. I’m trying to concentrate.” Roy’s dark brows knitted together and sweat beaded up on his forehead. Several bandages adorned his fingers as he wriggled them into a pair of his Pyrotex gloves. “Again, Sebastian.”

From a bucket of ice on the children’s old picnic table, Sebastian withdrew another icy bottle. “Yes sir. Now,” he toweled the glass efficiently and passed the bottle to his master, “Let us review the steps. Step one—remove the foil completely.”

_“Check.”_

“Step two—once you are in position, the wire cage over the cork can be safely removed. Remember, the pressure inside a bottle of champagne is roughly---“

“—ninety pounds of pressure per square inch. I _know_ —“

_“Ninety pounds?”_ Maes whistled. “Shit! That’s a bomb waiting to go off—“

“---and we _all_ know what an _expert_ you are about things blowing up, right, son?” Ed couldn’t resist a jab at his boy.

“I said shut up!” Roy growled ominously between clenched teeth. “You’re ruining my concentration—“

“—don’t want to be distracted when you’re whacking off,” Ed offered. “You might drop your saber.”

Lightning fast, a small but well-aimed bolt of orange fire singed the branch above Ed’s head. Roy’s glare darted to his stepson. “You want some too?”

Maes snapped to a salute. “Carry on, Pops!”

Roy looked so damned serious that Ed, like his son, was beginning to see the humor of the situation. It was so like Roy to put on a grand, dramatic display, showing off at the reception. _He’s an asshole sometimes,_ Ed admitted to himself, _but he’s MY asshole. I think I’ll keep him for now. “_ Get on with it, Roy!”

“Very good, Excellency. You’ve got the seam facing upward, as it should be. Now then, you want to take the bottle in your left hand and thrust your thumb firmly into the punt in the bottom---“

_“Punt?”_ Maes was guffawing now. “ _What the hell?”_

“Geeze, what kind of date are you, Mustang? Shoving your thumb up someone’s punt and you don’t you even spring for dinner and a movie?” Ed cackled. “Not even a goddamn _kiss?_ Or _lube?”_

At his elbow, Ed heard an undignified snort from Collins, who was taking great pains to avoid looking at Maes just now.

Roy made an attempt to salvage his dignity, his face a mask of feigned serenity as his husband and stepson were whooping with glee. “Now the sword.”

“Now the sword,” the Major Domo agreed. “Blade firm to the seam, canted to about a forty-five degree angle. Yes, that looks good, sir. Now, this time, don’t pause. You want to make a swift, clean, decisive stroke to strike the annulus---“

Father and son lost it completely. “The _what?!?”_ Collins discretely turned his back until he could get control of his emotions, failing miserably.

“—carrying through without stopping. With a proper stroke, the annulus should separate and discharge—“

Maes and Collins were now holding one another up and Ed had snot running out of his nose and tears running down his cheeks. Resolutely heterosexual—as far as anybody knew—Sebastian maintained his composure, but by this point, even Roy was chuckling in spite of his irritation. “All right!” he barked like a drill sergeant, “All of you be quiet. I don’t want to lose a finger.”

“Right. Gotta keep it shoved in the punt or your saber will never get the annulus off!” Maes had to slap his father on the back to make sure Ed kept breathing.

Firming his resolve, Roy swung the blade in a clean stroke. There was a loud ‘ _pop!’_ and the glass ring of the bottle’s mouth—the _annulus_ —flew cleanly about a half dozen yards, landing neatly in the herb garden. The cork was perfect and intact.

“Well done, Your Excellency. I believe you have it now. You should acquit yourself admirably when you serve the toast to the bride and groom.” Sebastian looked pleased.

“J-just….just…be careful where you aim that thing,” Ed gasped from the ground, wiping his eyes and nose. “Don’t want to go shooting your annulus all over. You might hit the wedding cake…”

_“Edward.”_ Roy stood over his giggling spouse and poured an icy draft of champagne over Ed’s head. _“Kiss my annulus.”_

_###_

 

“What the---wow, will you look at _that?”_

Precisely at six o’clock, the horse drawn carriage pulled up at Grand Central Hotel. The carriage had been a surprise, but since the warm spring evening was clear and the moon was up neither Mr. nor Mrs. Jean Havoc had any objection, especially with a grinning Maes Elric manning the reins. He’d hugged them both enthusiastically and presented Riza with a fragrant bouquet of snowy white roses and pink exotic lilies with a kiss on the cheek for his much loved ‘Aunt Ree’. As they trotted through the fading light the young man could barely contain his excitement. “We’re so happy for you,” he had chattered, “and Pops and Dad and everybody have had a blast getting this together.”

            “So it’s ‘Pops’ instead of ‘Uncle Roy’ now?” Jean asked.

            The long blond pony tail in front of them nodded. “Yeah. It’s legal. Mom’s not completely thrilled but Uncle Pitt said this is because Pops wants to keep everything legit and make sure his estate and alchemy stuff and all go to me and Nina if anything happens to him or Dad. Not like we give a shi— _uh_ \---damn. But it makes Pops feel better.”

            Jean and Riza exchanged knowing glances. That bullet that had caught Roy shallowly in the chest at his wedding had been a near thing. If it hadn’t struck Nina’s arm first, slowing its speed and altering its trajectory, it might have caught Roy straight in the heart. No wonder their commanding officer was wasting no time to make sure his stepchildren would be provided for—and protected—in the event of another threat.

            Riza shook her head. This was not a time to think about the events of that day, and as if he’d read her mind, Jean’s strong arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You look fantastic!” he whispered.

            “Flatterer,” she observed dryly. “You’d say that if I was hosing out the kennels.”

            “Wouldn’t be any less true,” her husband assured her proudly.

###

            _“Hssst!_ Did Roy _have_ to invite that Winchell woman?” Alphonse fretted as he straightened his apron. It had been Maes idea that Roy and the Elrics would dress up as waiters and serve the couple, and while Al was enjoying himself he was working himself into a bit of a frenzy attending the Bride’s Table while Roy lopped the tops of bottle after bottle of chilled champagne and did his duty as host, making sure everyone was well fed, well watered and well entertained.

Nina had spotted Kelly Winchell lurking around in the corners, scribbling notes, occasionally stuffing canapés into her purse. “What—she doesn’t get enough to eat at home?”

Prince Sheng looked unperturbed. “Best place for an enemy is under your nose where you can see him…or _her_.”

“I see Roy’s point but I don’t have to like it.” Al sighed. With the trial only days away, Roy was all but keeping Kelly Winchell under house arrest, not wanting to let her stray far enough from him or his aides to stir up any more trouble. Winchell, it was noted, was putting on the feedbag at several receptions, including Roy and Ed’s homecoming party. She was, he also noted, putting on a few pounds in the bargain.

            “I offered to prepare a _bento_ supper box to take home of our best canapés for her enjoyment,” Prince Sheng sighed, inspecting a tray of grilled samon in pastry with fresh dill before sending it out to the buffet. “A Nihonese hospitality custom from my mother’s people.” He glanced at Nina, who nodded in agreement. “She…declined.”

            “Her actual words were, ‘if I want Xink food take out, I’ll call Wong Foo on Eighth Avenue. H _uh choo-shung tza-jiao duh tzang-huo!”_ Nina shook her head in disgust. “ _Chr ni-duh!”*_

Alphonse, whose familiarity with Xingese language, both elegant and profane, dropped a full tray of Drachman caviar, which splattered all over his well polished shoes. His mouth hung open in fascinated horror. Hearing such…colorful… invective coming from the lips of his precious niece was like dropping a fresh turd into a jade vase.

            Sheng Yao knelt and chalked a quick array around the mess. He clapped his hands and the hideously expensive sturgeon roe was back in the antique crystal dish Tsar Dimitri had shipped it in as his gift to the couple. “She didn’t learn that from me,” he whispered in apology. “Her accent, however, will benefit with time and practice.”

            “Let’s see if it improves when her dad puts soap in her mouth.”

###

           

_Even if it all falls down after the trial…we have this._

The only ‘magic’ Riza Hawkeye-Havoc had ever known was the blood-soaked legacy of her father’s flame alchemy, the secrets of which had been driven by needle and ink into her very flesh. Alchemy was a terrible tool of war at worst, a healing miracle at best. She never wanted any part of it, and yet for most of her life had yearned for the affection of an elegant man who became a killer because of that arcane art.

            She hadn’t known there were other forms of magic until the late spring snow fell in Stoltovgrad and she and Jean had walked there, hand in hand, without speaking.

            Roy had hurt her. Even if it had all been manipulation—especially if it had been manipulation—his words had cut deep and drawn blood. Not the words about herself—the words about Jean. She hadn’t known how much she still loved him until Roy had made those cool observations about Jean getting older and less dependable.

            Smacking that pale, smooth face had felt better than putting a bullet in a bullseye on the rifle range. She’d clobbered him with a force and an anger she hadn’t dared acknowledge before. She was _furious_. Furious at Roy Mustang—and furious at herself for a lifetime of self-deception.

            And as they walked in the snow and he held her hand, she was taken aback to recognize how her head seemed a little clearer away from Mustang’s charisma. She was surprised at how quickly she started smiling again in Jean’s company. _I always know where I stand with you…you always kept me first in your heart, always. Why didn’t I keep you first in mine? All those years…you kept waiting for me to turn around and truly see how good you are, even when we were living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed. And now…_

It was the puppies that made up her mind. Prince Georg, a rambunctious seven year old, had grabbed Havoc’s hand and practically dragged him to the kennels to see the Tsar’s new litter of Drachman wolfhound puppies. Havoc had scooped the boy up, swinging him onto his broad shoulders, and carried him out to the fence.

            Moments later, he was flat on his back in the snow, laughing merrily as a half dozen puppies and one laughing seven year old pounced on him, throwing handfuls of snow in the air for the sheer exuberance of it.

            The sound of Jean Havoc’s laughter melted the ice she’d felt inside for a lifetime. She knelt down in the snow beside him and he pulled her down, kissing her, tickling her and handed her a puppy. Prince Georg giggled. “Are you going to get married, Uncle Jean?”

            Their eyes met. “Yes, he _is_ ,” said Riza Hawkeye.

            And yes, they did.

###

            Peta Lobachevsky found Maes leaning against the doorway, eyes on the ballroom that was slowly beginning to empty. Those friends and family members who had volunteered to help make the evening success began discreetly tidying up. There was a strange, almost wistful look on the young alchemist’s face.

            “My friend…you are all right?” Peta asked softly in Drachman. She had been a friend to Maes Elric since childhood and knew him so well…this was a mood she did not recognize.

            Her keen green eyes followed his gaze to where his father and stepfather were dancing slowly together along with the other couples on the ballroom floor. She couldn’t see the President’s face but Professor Elric’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed and smiling as they moved together. “They look well,” she nodded in approval. “Uncle Edward—never have I seen him this…content? Is that the right word?”

            “ _Da.”_ A faint rumble of a tea cart behind them made the pair step aside as Collins ferried a Drachman tsamovar and a silver Cretan coffee urn into the party, along with bite sized pastries for anyone with an odd corner of the tummy that was not yet filled.

            The girl noticed how Maes’ eyes followed the older man, and how the wistfulness seemed to deepen into something very close to sadness.

            She touched his arm gently. “There is nothing you can’t tell me if it will ease your heart, _tovarich_.”

            He watched David Collins in silence. At long last, he sighed heavily. “I could…be…like them. I…really could.” He bit his lower lip pensively. “Like Dad and Pops. I could be happy like that.”

            Peta smiled up at him. “Then,” she told him gently, “go be happy.”

            “It’s…not so easy, Pets. I mean…you know my family…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

            “I know they love you. They want you to be happy, _da?_ ” Her face lit up. “Your sister—she would want this too. All of us do.”

            He patted her hand. “I know, Pets. I _know._ But….what about….” His expression tightened. “I have a responsibility. He touched his pale golden hair, braided neatly for once. “You know the truth about us. You know….we’re the last of them. The Xerxians. Me. Dad. Nina.” She could hear the pain and confusion in his voice. “Uncle Al hasn’t….didn’t…we’d know if he’d had any, y’know. And Nina’s…I don’t know if she will….hard for her to trust that far, right? So it’s up to me, isn’t it? So I can’t be with him.”

            “ _Bullasheeet.”_

_“Huh?”_

“ _Eto piz-detz!**_ Now, you listen to me, my friend,” she caught him by the lapels of his waistcoat and leaned in, nose to nose. “The future, don’t let it breathe down your neck like some dog trying to bite you. Bite it back! Let it take care of itself—and it will, if you are brave enough to be happy.” She kissed his cheek and gave him a gentle shove.

            As Maes stepped up to the coffee urn, he glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Peta was smiling and giving him a thumbs-up. He turned to David Collins, who looked as crisp and unflappable as he had when the party began. _Good thing to love someone who can keep his shit together when I’m losing mine—and knows first aid in case of lab accidents. Well…here goes…._

_“I’m eighteen.”_

“I beg your---“

            “I said I’m eighteen. You’re twenty-five.”

            “Maes? What are you—“

            “I’m young. I get that. And I don’t want to make stupid mistakes like my folks did when they were young. But—“ he swallowed nervously, “—I…shit! I’m tryin’ to say is…we have time…and…if you…think you might want to…can we give it a chance and find out…?”

            The older man stepped closer, his polished demeanor vanished. “Are you asking…?”

            “—for time to see….if you can learn to love me?” This last came out in a breathless rush.

           

            When she saw the two tall figures embrace, Peta skipped back to the kitchen, cheerfully humming an old Drachman love song, utterly baffling Nina and the prince as she hugged them and swung them around the room.

            “Peta? Are you drunk?” Nina gasped.

            _“Nyet!_ But I celebrate nonetheless!” She dove for the icebox, rummaged around and spun around with a crow of triumph. “And since there is no _vodka_ , I’ll settle for chocolate mousse!”

            She tore off the cover and held the dish to her mystified friends, who only paused for a moment before grabbing spoons and digging into the chocolaty goodness.

###

Now as the lights dimmed, most of the guests were gone. A few still lingered, and the band played slow, dreamy jazz tunes like “Moonlight Serenade”, which coaxed Ed and Roy back onto the dance floor beside the new couple. Riza and Jean had laughed over the way the two men always tossed a coin to determine who would lead.

            “Mind if we cut in?”

            Riza smiled warmly at the two men as they approached. “Not at all.” She reached out her hand….

            ….and swung Edward out into the spotlight.

            Roy and Havoc exchanged glances. “You man enough?” Roy offered.

            “Only if I get to lead. I’m taller, Chief.” He dug into his pocket. “Oh, Ed gave me this earlier to hang on to. Said he had to get it back at all costs.” Havoc held out a small bundle wrapped securely in a handkerchief.

            Soon as he touched it, Roy knew instantly what it was. As they glided along the dance floor, they passed Edward and Riza, smiling and laughing over some private joke.

            Roy held up the bundle. “Ed?”

            The love of Roy’s life grinned back at him. “Dance with all the men and women you want, old man….but remember…your _annulus_ belongs to me!”

 

….TO BE CONTINUED….

 

* _” “Filthy livestock fornicator!” Fuck you!” in Mandarin. Translation courtesy of the Firefly-Serenity Chinese Pinyinary_

_**”This is fucked up!”—Russian slang_

_AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sabrage—or the art of ‘sabering’ a champagne bottle is a real practice—and can be really dangerous. Don’t try this at home!_

 


	39. THE MUSTANG AND THE ICE QUEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before he faces Parliament at the Ishballan War Crimes tribunal, Roy ties up some loose ends—and possibly ties up his husband as well—revealing at last his longterm plans for succession should his administration fall. Meanwhile, he invites Olivier Armstrong to Rose Hill for a drink and a confrontation a long time coming….

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 39: THE MUSTANG AND THE ICE QUEEN

BY The Binary Alchemist 2014

            Edward swung in though his office door, puddles of spilled coffee in his wake. He had a pastry shoved in his mouth and he was gesticulating wildly as he skidded to a halt in front of his secretary’s desk. _“Mwhr zz mhuh reefcaz?”_

            “Beside your desk, sir.” Collins, already on the phone, was scribbling something into Edward’s appointment book.

            Ed swallowed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Darting around his desk, he found his battered briefcase neatly closed for once, and all his papers organized inside. “How the hell did you know what I was asking for? Ed demanded.

            “I speak fluent coffee and doughnut, sir.” He turned back to the receiver. “Yes, ma’am. The grant for your son was approved this morning after his transcripts were reviewed. I’ve sent a packet with information about housing and the school catalog to your home, and once you’ve confirmed your account information with us we will directly deposit his first grant payment into it six weeks before the beginning of the fall term.”

            “Which grant is that?” Ed looked mystified.

            “Jordan Lane. The boy you met on the train coming to East City when you were returning from the Eastern Kingdoms. You gave his mother our number and asked her to apply for a Beacon Scholarship to the Academy. “

            That had been months ago, before the wedding and the book scandal and Roy’s birthday. Now, with the Ishballan War Crimes trial beginning tomorrow morning, Jordie Lane’s future had been the last thing on his mind. “Oh, shit. I forgot.”

            “Captain Elric,” Collins replied, referring to Al’s honorary title as an Aeronaut, “was able to review and approve it. He knows you have a lot on your mind. I’ve gotten all the paperwork processed and all we have to do is post the check to the boy’s student account and arrange his train fare before term.

            Ed whistled. “Fuck, you’re efficient!”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            He hardly recognized his office, now that his nemesis, Ruby, was gone. Every surface gleamed with polish, every speck of dust had been chased away. The long dead potted plants that Ruby used to pour her leftover tea into had been replaced with some handsome ferns, and there were no cigarette ashes in the carpet. There were urns of fresh coffee and tea on the sideboard and an old oak ice box had been refinished and moved to Ed’s lair, filled with fresh fruit, cheeses and plenty of soft drinks and even a few beers. Ed’s coffee mug was no longer crusty. The files on his desk were all organized and notated and his appointment book was updated hourly. Even the fish in Al’s aquarium were healthy and fed and for once, none of them were floating.

            After taking it all in, Ed walked over and slapped Collins on the shoulder. “You officially have my permission to marry my son. Maybe he won’t keep losing his socks and keys.”

            The younger man flushed and smiled modestly. “We have mutually agreed to a long engagement.”

            “Well,” Ed grinned, when and if you two decide to make it official, just let me know. And…”Ed drew a deep breath, “I’ll handle Winry. About the…you know. Ah…” he ruffled his fringe, trying to grasp the right word. “Um…the… _kids_ …thing. Not like her brood isn’t gonna make her a grandmom. And…hey…who knows? Nina could…maybe she—“ Ed shrugged awkwardly.

            “We appreciate that, Professor.” For a moment, the formal, polished demeanor vanished and Edward could see the genuine warmth in those blue-green eyes. _He loves my boy. My boy loves him. I’m sorry Maes will never hold a son of his own, but if he’s happy…._

Clearing his throat, Ed spun on his heels and snapped on the radio, which was safely out of harm’s way on top of the handsome ice box. “With Ruby gone, at least we won’t have to listen to that goddamned _Midday Amestris_. I swear, if I hear the name Donal Samuelson today, I’m gonna puke up my doughnut---what the _hell??”_

Fiddling with the dial, Edward turned up the volume. A surprisingly warm and throaty voice filled the office, one which Ed could not reconcile with the breathy, baby-voiced tones the singer used in the presence of the press and men she was trying to seduce…

            _We wanted to be soldiers—we were hardly more than kids_

_We believed in Fuhrer Bradley—we believed in what we did_

_Then that cursed war in Ishbal opened up our dreaming eyes_

_In that senseless, mindless carnage, far more than our dreams died_

_From wounds within and wounds without I ‘ve watched you break and bleed_

_I know what you want to do, Roy—and I know what you’ll need_

            An interviewer’s voice over the lyrics. “This is quite a departure from your other recordings, Miss Turlough. Is your musical career taking off in a new direction with ‘What You Need’?”

            The baby voice through the speaker sounded as if it had grown up a little. Still breathy—still made you feel like she was about to stick her tongue in your ear, but with an edge that made Ed suspect that the spoiled starlet had finally started to care about something other than her poilished pink nails and the size of a man’s dick. “I like to think that, Eleanor,” Gladys replied. “I was there at the wedding when the President was shot, and the whole thing got me thinking that life, ya know, is short. Maybe if we get a chance, we can do some good before we go. I got to know the President’s family and heard about Mistah Hughes from his wife…and I thought, ya know…what would he have said to Mistah Mustang when they were kids in the war, ya know? So I—“

            “Gladys Turlough.” Edward’s mouth arched up in a grin that was completely devoid of sarcasm. “Collins, next time I see her, remind me to kiss that woman.”

            “I’ll pencil it in, Professor.” Ed couldn’t see Collin’s smile. “Tongue or no tongue?”

            “Aw, get fucked!”

            David Collins glanced up at his future father in law, looking blandly innocent. “I’ll pencil _that_ in, too, sir. Exactly how long _is_ my lunch break?”

###

           

            Roy Mustang still had the chessboard General Grumman had given him before Roy was promoted, chose his personal team and transferred from Eastern Command to Central HQ.

            _Heymans Breda. Kain Furey. Vato Falman. Jean Havoc. Riza Hawkeye Havoc._ Like chessmen he had moved them, risked them, nearly lost them…but they had never let him down. To the last they supported Roy in his vision of revolution and renewal—and democracy.

            It had taken the lion’s share of his life so far to make it happen. In a handful of days they would all stand together again in the halls of the Amestrian Parliament to answer for the crimes they committed out of ignorance.

            _Genocide._ That was the word that Donal Samuelson was bleating over the radio.

            _Genocide._ A best seller by a hack celebrity biographer and a disgruntled old newsman named Frank Archer had left a nation shocked and sickened by the handiwork of Roy Mustang and the State Alchemists during the Siege of Dahlia in Ishbal.

            On every news broadcast, on every editorial page came the heated debate: _Should the nation of Amestris be led by a mass murderer, no matter how much he had done to try to make restitution to the Ishballan people?_

            Words like ‘impeachment’ were spoken aloud. Words like ‘imprisonment’ and even ‘execution for war crimes’ were whispered in the shadows of the halls of power. Many of the officers and even a few of Roy’s cabinet had made contingency plans for laying low or getting to safety if Roy’s ship of state was scuttled and sank into oblivion.

            For absolute certain, his Five Chessmen had not—and would not—desert Roy Mustang on the day of reckoning. And to those five alone—and to Edward and Alphonse—Roy had revealed last night his own contingency plans for the future.

            Five Chessmen in reserve, to carry on the dream if he failed…

 

            One by one, he showed his trusted allies and his husband the carved figures, laying each piece upon the black and white playing field, naming them aloud at last.

            _“Maes Urey Elric. Nina Mustang Elric.”_

            The King and Queen of this new game—odd how they seemed to reverse roles over and over again. Did it matter, really? His daughter was always fond of saying that sometimes the best man for the job was a woman. Maes? He couldn’t care less as long as he was making a difference. Only Maes could have freed a damaged mind like Selim Bradley’s from its prison of trauma, bringing him carefully into recognizance without destroying the young man any further. Nina had the logic. Maes had the heart, and Roy would not have changed either of them for the world.

            “ _His Royal Highness, Prince Ma Sheng Yao of Xing.”_

            His Bishop….Roy found him on a state visit ten years ago. In fact, there had been no certainty of which side of the board the boy would choose to stand until now. He had the intellect, the steady mind and, to Roy’s great relief, he had already made of his mind that serving others as a physician and alchemist was more important that the vague possibility of sitting on the Chrysanthemum Throne of his father’s empire. Like the chess piece Roy assigned to him in his personal game, everybody tended to underestimate the bishop’s power until he moved…

            _“Agathe Helena Petrovna Lobachevsky.”_

            His Rook had been under his eyes for years. Like her chess piece, she had been blocked, unable to move, for so long. Now, like a horse given its head in a race, she was not to be stopped. Like Roy himself, she had an uncanny sense of managing people—only his rook did this through love and a few blunt words of common sense. In years to come, he strongly suspected, she would learn from Hawkeye how to keep him from procrastinating.

            _“David Collins.”_

            The Knight was rightly named for the chessman who could literally jump over obstacles. He had defended the king and queen with his life fifteen years ago, when he was an illiterate, filthy alley rat with a whore for a mother and a father sick from drug addiction. A petty thief, mocked by the other alley rats as ‘Dogshit Davy’. Roy had perceived the worth in the child, and was gratified with dramatic transformation of David Collins into a young man of polish, discretion and initiative.

            And then there was the Pawn. _“Katherine Creighton.”_

            There was no knowing where the Pawn was moving on the board...and if anyone knew, they sure as hell weren’t talking.

            “And there you have it.” Roy spread his hands in a gesture that implied that there was nothing more to say.

            “Except,” Havoc added with a determined grin, “that we’ll all be goddamned if this is your Endgame, Chief.”

            “Might want to put those new pieces back in the box for a while, Sir,” Breda seconded.

            “Good strategy, Mr. President. However, considering the strength of your defense I think it might be advisable---“

            “You’re being too literal again, Falman,” Hawkeye observed.

            “Sorry, Ma’am.”

            “You’ve always had our backs, Sir,” Kain assured his commander. “You know we’ve got yours.”

            “Let the kids watch and learn,” Ed agreed, Alphonse nodding beside him.

            Throat tight with emotion, Roy didn’t trust himself to say anything more than, “Dismissed!”          

###

           

( _From the journal of Roy Mustang)_

            _This morning I had the unpleasant task of meeting for coffee with Maud ‘Kelly’ Winchell, part of my ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ campaign to keep her intrigued and sufficiently blackmailed so she won’t be able to do me any long term damage. She is still laboring under the delusion that she will be writing my authorized biography. As Ed would say, you can trust her about as far as you can comfortably throw an armored tank._

_She’d been squirming her way into Parliament sessions and when I greeted her from my desk she rounded on me, notebook in hand, and had the nerve to insinuate that the newly-ratified bill for veteran’s health care was a way to get votes when my approval ratings—according to her impeccable sources—are at an all time low._

_The only reason I didn’t give in to the temptation to snap off a few pyrotechnics in anger was my concern that the half can of lacquer she had sprayed on that bleached blonde wig of hers might ignite and I’d never get the stench of burned plastic out of my office._

_“Let’s see now…” I began to tick off the items in the bill on my fingers. “Comprehensive health care for soldiers on active duty, on disability and for veterans. Health care to include both physical and psychological injury and/or illness, rehabilitation, physical therapy and psychological assessment and treatment. Substance abuse evaluation and rehabilitation. Insurance coverage for reimbursement for qualified prosthetic and automail limbs….my, my, Maude! Now,” I leaned forward and scowled at her, “why don’t you tell me why you find any of this objectionable? A woman like you—making money off a book that not only exploited the dead Ishballans but our Amestrian soldiers as well—how the hell can you find a problem with helping the men and women who serve this country?”_

_“You could have made Parliament pass it sooner,” she sniffed._

_And there you have it. Whatever I have or hope to do will either be too late or too little._

_At least I did_ something….

           

            _For some reason, talking to Maude makes me want to either down a stiff belt of something lethally alcoholic or grab my husband and do obscene things to him with my tongue, just to divert my mind from talking to a female that is, in fact, as hard and as ruthless as any military strategist I’ve ever known. In fact, I could think of only one other female who was as thirsty for battle—_

_\--and when I arrived in my office, she was sitting at my desk._

_In_ front _of my desk. Even she didn’t have the temerity to take my chair—but then she’d told me once that when she had the chance to sit behind that presidential desk she’d changed her mind. “Any fool who sits with his back to a window deserves to be shot at,” she told me._

_Just as blonde. Just as magnificent as ever. “Major General Armstrong. It’s good to see you. I’m sorry you missed the wedding.”_

_“I’m sorry I missed seeing you cry like a baby when you got hit with a bullet.”_

_I shook her hand. Her grip, as always, surprised me with its strength. “Then you would have been disappointed. Nina didn’t cry either.”_

_She smiled faintly. “Nina….yes….your stepdaughter. I’m sure she and her brother are far more interesting now that they are no longer in the larval stage.”_

_She was in Central for the hearings and it was the first time I had invited her for drinks and she had actually accepted without insulting my manhood or suggesting that I had risen to power on my knees._

_She was being called to testify before Parliament, in fact. And it was not because my ass was on the line, or to protect herself. She was here to protect her officers…her people._

_However adversarial our relationship may have been all these years, I can never fault the Ice Queen for that._

_It is interesting that there are persons that seem to cross our paths that chafe and irritate us but in doing so they force us to expand our boundaries and exceed our limitations. I have faced this woman on the battlefield and yes, she beat the hell out of me—figuratively and literally. But the greatest challenge she ever offered me was not in the military field of combat._

_It was right here. Right now. In my mind, I moved my king into position on the black and white chessboard. “Check.”_

_The lovely mouth turned up into a smile. I’d caught her, fare and square._

_“How did you know?”_

_“Donal Samuelson had to get his campaign funds from_ somewhere _. You knew you couldn’t reach for the presidency yourself, not after you ordered your troops to attack the soldiers in Central. You were a heartbeat away from being hanged for treason. You’re lucky Grumman cut that deal with you under the tables.” I poured two glasses of whiskey, passing one to my opponent. “I’m curious why you chose Samuelson, of all people.”_

_She accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. “He had a grudge. A little man with a grudge. He thought you didn’t deserve to sit up on the throne. He wanted to knock you down. I thought I’d give him a chance. It was a gamble I had to take.”_

_That surprised me. “A gamble?”_

_She leveled those icy eyes at me. “For Amestris. If you couldn’t face the worst that they could throw at you—Ishbal and your actions on the Promised Day—then you didn’t deserve to lead a democracy.”_

_“So,” I contemplated her cold, lovely features. “What do you think now?”_

_After a long pause, she gave an abrupt snort of amusement. “I still despise you only marginally less than I despise my brother, but you’ll do, Mustang.” Her empty glass was placed on my desk and she strolled out the door without so much as a word of farewell. “Better than nothing, I suppose…”_

###

            Even Riza Hawkeye had never been allowed inside the Secret Garden.

            The Tringham brothers had helped design it back when the children had been young. High stone walls, higher hedges and the surrounding thicket of wicked pyracantha thorns that ringed the outside discouraged anyone from attempting to breach the sanctuary. “You want a safe place for the kids to play?” Roy had challenged Pinako. “I can do that.”

            Entered only by a concealed passage from butler’s pantry inside the house, the Secret Garden had eventually become Roy and Ed’s refuge

“Nice.” Edward thumped the graceful trunk of a delicate Nihonese weeping cherry tree that was the showpiece of the garden. “It doesn’t hurt the tree for it to keep blooming like this?”

            At that moment, Roy could have told Edward that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the finer points of alchemic botany. The breeze had lifted and a rain of soft pink petals swirled around them, catching in Edward’s pale hair.

            The past—spattered with gore and memories that wounded his heart—was behind him. Tomorrow, and in the days that followed, the old wounds would be torn open one last time. It would end for him—everything would end for him, one way or another. The future…

            He was _mostly_ certain there would be a future. His hands were stained with blood but surely not enough to put a rope around Roy’s neck. At worst, he reckoned, they would impeach him. At best, they would believe him and the country would rock with the impact. How could the population cope with the idea that each and every one of them had been regarded as little more than a resource for an alchemic transmutation? All these years and it still made him ill to think about it.

            Yes, there would be a future. And right here, right now, it was too dim to see. All he had was now—and right now, the man he loved was standing under a cherry tree with petals in his hair, a lopsided grin on his face and his hands already loosening his tie as he kicked off his shoes.

            _Words are useless_ , he told himself. _Don’t overthink this. All we have is Now…_

And in the joy of Now, they reached out to one another…

###

            _“General'nyy Armstrong ? Dobro pozhalovat' v Rouz Khill . Vy govorite Drachman ?”_

The young woman who brought General Armstrong her coffee in the guest suite had the look of a scholar, but fortunately lacked the prominent nose of her father. “ _Da_ ,” the officer replied. “However, if you are throwing your lot in with Mustang, Miss Lobachevsky, perhaps you should continue in Amestrian for practice.”

            “You are correct, t’ank you. I have message for you from President Mustang. He says he haff gift for you. He say- _says—_ it will appeal to your… _literary_ …side? Dat is correct-- _obratit'sya k vashey lyubvi k knigam?_ De--- _the_ —biographies?” She shook her head in frustration. “How he expect me to work here when my Amestrian is not so good yet? Mebbe dis vill make it clear?”

            She gestured to a chessboard, and advanced the white king to take a black pawn. “ _Ponyat_ '…you understand this?”

            The Ice Queen stared at the board for a long moment. Then she drew her saber with a malicious grin. “Let’s go. _Poydem!”_

 

           

 

Under Roy’s lips, Ed’s abdominal muscles flexed abruptly as he jerked upright. Somewhere outside the sheltered walls of their garden, he heard a loud screech, extravagant female cursing, and the pounding of feet in the general direction of the reflection pond in the parkway. To his horror, he heard the unmistakable _swwooshh_ of fine Amestrian steel being swung through the air. “What the--?”

            “Relax.” Roy hand slid down and began to stroke Ed, whose cock was already at half-mast from shock. “She only uses the point or edge on _worthy_ adversaries. Mad as she is, I don’t think she’ll cripple Maude.” There was something positively feline about his smirk, like a cat emerging from the pantry in triumph, a squealing mouse dangling from its jaws.

            “Mustang,” Ed growled, “what the fuck are you up to?”

            Roy’s head ducked down until he was eye to eye with the object of his affection, coaxing it back to hardness with some inventive flicks and strums along the underside that would successfully distract his husband from the spectacle of Maude Kelly Winchell getting chased into a pond, dragged out and paddled across the ass with the flat of the General’s sword. “Nothing much. I just… _mmmm_ ….”

            “ _Fuuckkkkk_! Yeahhhh…shit, don’t stop!”

            “Sort of figured….” The tongue became downright impertinent, invading more of Ed’s territory and making the younger man pant and squirm. “….that after going to…. _hnnngggghhhhhh!_ ” Impatiently, he pulled Ed’s thighs further apart, not even pausing to enjoy the view. “….all the trouble of writing that book about the Armstrong family and inferring that the Major General has a fetish for tying up grown men she defeats in battle and spanking them with a riding crop or her saber---“

            “Wouldn’t know _anything_ about that, would you?” Edward jeered.

            “---and having a truly impressive collection of steel dildoes—“

            “Ouch! That must have hurt!”

            “You’d be surprised. Anyway,” Roy gave an appreciative lick to Ed’s testicles before sliding up to his knees, one hand guiding his own hardness to the target and rubbing against it in lazy circles that made Ed hook his heels over Roy’s broad shoulders, tugging at him impatiently. “Since I’m the only subject of her biographies that she’d actually _met_ before publication, and since I‘d invited the Major General to enjoy the hospitality of Rose Hill during her stay…why, it only seemed to be good manners to arrange a little introduction.” Hips rocking gently forward, Roy’s eyes slid shut in delight. “I confided my intentions to Miss Lobachevsky, who was only too pleased to make the arrangements—in the event that I became caught up in something important.”

            “Caught up? Like this?” Edward _squeezed,_ grinning as Roy yelped louder than Maude Kelley Winchell as the hack biographer dove for deeper water in hopes that the fearsome Major General was not able to dog-paddle and swing a sword at the same time.

            A few more strokes and Roy wouldn’t have noticed if Winchell was being disemboweled and eaten by Al’s ornamental goldfish.

 

….TO BE CONTINUED…..

 


	40. DEBTS AND INTELLIGENCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of Roy’s testimony before the Amestrian Parliament—and the first revelations of the deadly secrets of the War and the Promised Day—hope and help come from the strangest places….

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 40: DEBTS AND INTELLIGENCE (The Trial of Roy Mustang, part one)

By The Binary Alchemist. 2014

 

            “You’ll find Kelley Winchell in my office. Nina has gotten her something to cover up her… _dignity_.” With a manful effort, Roy Mustang managed to keep a belly laugh from escaping out his nose in an ungentlemanly snort.

            As far as Owen Knox was concerned, it was a waste of time—and Kelley Winchell was a waste of estrogen and perfume. “I have do this, don’t I?”

            “Check her for injuries? I’m afraid so.” Roy shrugged nonchalantly as Dr. Knox brushed cigarette ashes off his white doctor’s coat. “Not that there’s any real damage to anything other than her pride.”

            “Huh. Way she’s carrying on in there,” he jerked this thumb in the direction of Roy’s office, “you’d have thought that General Armstrong shot that two-bit hack in the ass with a mortar instead of paddling her rump with the flat end of her saber.”

            “Shot her in the ass with a mortar?” Ed rolled his eyes. “ _I wish.”_

            “Ohhh, shut up, Ed.” A lazy smile played around Roy’s lips and his eyes had that wicked twinkle they often did whenever he had gotten a good one over on an adversary. “If Olivier Armstrong sets out to damage you, you don’t get up and walk away. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

            At Ed’s elbow, David Collins hem-hemmed politely. “Ah. Mr. President. Point of order. Miss Winchell did not _precisely_ walk away. I noted that the heel snapped off one of her pink leather pumps, so she sort of crawled on her hands and knees until she managed to kick off both of her shoes---“

            “And chucked ‘em right back at the General,” Maes offered. “Maud aimed right for the General’s tits. Bounced right off her knockers like they were made of cold forged steel. “He snapped off a mock salute in tribute to the impressive breastworks that, no doubt, had been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations. “What a woman!”

            There was a furious screech and the sound of crashing china on the other side of the door. Roy signaled for silence and they could hear the cool, refined tones of Nina Elric, barely keeping her fury under tight rein. “That teapot,” Nina stated, “was the sole surviving example of the 17th Century artistry from the porcelain master Xavier d’Entrecolles. King Claudio gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday.” There was a brilliant flash of light and the air around them crackled with energy, even in the hall. “Prepare to _die.”_

“Like father, like daughter,” Roy grumbled as he yanked the door open to intervene and prevent his stepdaughter from transmuting Roy’s coat rack into anything that could stab, bludgeon or be shoved into any of Kelley Winchell’s body cavities.

#####

 

            When Nina snapped on the kitchen light, she nearly wet herself with shock. A blonde amazon was leaning against the refrigerator door, arms crossed and, thankfully, unarmed. “What the he—I…I mean…good evening, General. What are you doing—“

            “You may be the smart one in the litter, but Elrics are disgustingly predictable.” Cool eyes darted in the direction of Nina’s midsection. “It seems genetics have favored you, otherwise these midnight raids on the ice cream in the freezer would make you as flabby and useless as that idiot I had to settle this afternoon.” A sharp jab with a uniformed elbow and the freezer door swung open. Armstrong inspected the contents with mild disgust. “ _Spumoni_. Revolting. I see your seasons at the royal court in Aerugo ruined your taste in food as well as your fashion sense.”

            “And _you_ can lay off my sister right now.” Maes loomed in the doorway, scowling. “Shut your damn mouth or—“

            “Or _nothing_. Things are tense enough around here. Maes, the General is my guest and will be shown all courtesy. Nina? If nervous eating is the worst of your faults you’ll make me a very proud man—and your dentist a very wealthy one.” Looking elegant in a smartly tailored dressing gown with fine leather slippers, Roy headed straight to the coffee urn, which, by Presidential order, was filled with hot, fresh coffee at all times. Adding a splash of cream, he stirred it with his finger. “Didn’t we feed you well enough at dinner, General?”

            She nodded briskly. “Not that I had the stomach for it after dealing with that cowardly lying bi—“

            “—who has taken due punishment—“

            “—and has to replace a broken pair of high heels, torn stockings and a girdle with all the elastic ruptured in the seat,” Nina finished. She glanced at her brother. “And no, I didn’t take pictures. So,” she turned now to the General, “what were you doing in the kitchen at this time of night?”

            “I just got off the phone. Some intelligence has been brought to my attention. Not a surprise to you,” she barely acknowledged Roy’s presence. “But I thought it might ease some of your concerns about your stepfather.”

            Nina tensed. Maes looked suspicious.

            “Roy Mustang may be the highest ranked State Alchemist who survived the Dahlia campaign in Ishbal, but he’s not the highest ranking officer still alive.”

            “ _WHAT??”_

            “Old man Grumman. I asked him to testify. He agreed. Stuck in a wheelchair, but the old goat has come to testify. Says he outranks your pisspot greenhorn of a stepfather—“

            “HEY!”

            “—since he reached Lieutenant General back when Mustang was still a lowly major. Since Grumman was appointed Fuhrer years before, he outranks you, Mustang. I can’t say he out-classes you. He’s holed up in Room 5 over at Madame Christmas’ establishment, and from what Rebecca Catalina has told me he’s eaten his weight in steaks and Drachman caviar and he just can’t keep his bony hands off any female with a pulse.” She looked positively delighted with the stunned look on the children’s faces. “He’s recorded his sworn testimony—just in the event he dies in bed with one of the ‘working girls’ before the hearings begin—“ Maes punched the air with his fist with a whoop of joy and Nina rushed to embrace her smiling stepfather. “He said he’d lived a long enough life, and told the investigating committee that if they needed to hang anybody, then they bloody well should go ahead and wring his scrawny old neck first as the senior surviving officer.”

            “They declined.”

            For several moments, nobody moved. Then Roy bowed to his long time adversary. “I am in your debt, Ma’am.”

            General Armstrong smiled coldly.. “For the rest of your life, Mustang. _For the rest of your life_.”

#####

“They aren’t going to hang you,” Ed told Roy matter-of-factly after the first day of Roy’s testimony. “You still owe me 520 cenz. You can’t die and weasel out on it.”

            “And speaking of debts, you _still_ owe me an hour long blowjob,” Roy had volleyed back. “Trust me, I was not planning on marching up the thirteen steps to the long drop before collecting on that particular debt.” His dark eyes danced with malicious glee. “I _told_ you we’d find a wire recorder on Maude when Hawkeye searched her, and you were fool enough to wager I was wrong.”

            “Every entrance has a sign saying no cameras or recording devices.” Ed had looked puzzled. “How the hell did she get a wire into the chamber after they confiscated her purse?”

            “Hawkeye was….” Roy made a wry face, “very thorough. And, fortunately, not squeamish.”

            “My jaw will fall off, you jerk!”

            “I’ll treat you to some lip balm.”

            Ed had grabbed Roy by the arm and yanked him to a stop. “Listen,” he hissed. “How the hell are we able to make jokes when there’s so damn much at stake?”

            Roy smiled a little, recalling his simple reply. _“Because all I have to do is tell the truth, Ed. The people who are shitting themselves and running for cover are the ones who have to remember which lie was told to whom._ _All I have to do is tell the truth.”_

_####_

 

            “Gracia….I can’t.”

            “Can’t say ‘ no’, you mean. Because I won’t let you take the stand without it.” Her steady gaze was calm and reassuring, reflecting a confidence that many around Roy Mustang did not feel. In fact, Roy had noted, more than a few politicians had distanced themselves from the President of Amestris. Oh, it wasn’t anything screamingly obvious, Roy was quick to point out to his staff. Fleas off a dead dog’s ass, Havoc had named them, adding that if these politicos were more worried about their reputations than taking care of the people, Roy was well shed of them.

            While Roy never took any of his friends or family for granted, Gracia’s insistence about seeing him that first morning before he appeared before the Parliament meant more to him than he would have supposed. And when she reached into her handbag and presented Roy with a token of good luck, he was as close to being overwhelmed has he had ever been.

            A gold class ring bearing a military seal. Roy had been presented with an identical ring, only his had been transmuted into an array that Roy could keep for backup, should his gloves be damaged in battle during the Dahlia campaign. He kept it in his breast pocket with his pocket watch in the field. It had been destroyed when Heathcliff Arber shot him in the chest and the watch and array talisman had been shattered by the bullet’s impact.

            Hughes had given Gracia that class ring to wear on a chain until he came back from the war, to be replaced with her tiny diamond engagement ring. It had been locked securely in her jewelry box ever since.

            Now, she had pressed it into his hand, folding his fingers tightly around the ring. “Roy,” she whispered, “I know you don’t believe in luck…but I do. Keep this. Maes would want you to have it. You…” her eyes turned away from his dark gaze, “you said you…you saw him. In the Gateway. When you got your sight back…right?”

            “Yeah.” His heart gave a funny lurch at the memory. The son of a bitch had looked terrific, grinning like a fool and waving, and telling Roy to get off his ass and take his heart out of Hughes’ grave. _‘Take a chance, Roy. Risk it. Find somebody—anybody. Be happy. Because if you go on living like this, dead inside and beating yourself up, you’re only half alive, you idiot!”_ And there, in the uncanny light from that terrible doorway, Hughes had pulled him into a bear hug that felt as real and warm as any they had shared in life. There was a hard, swift, bearded kiss on his cheek---and Roy had come tumbling through eternity, opening his eyes in the middle of his array, blinking painfully as the lights in the room burned through his half open eyelids.

            “You know he’s watching. You _know_ it.” Her nails pressed into the back of his hand as she squeezed his clenched fist around the gift. _“Take it.”_

In the end, he slipped it onto his right hand, nodding. “For now. When it’s over, I’ll give it back. Pass it down to your grandson some day.”

#####

            Roy’s testimony was not the first to be heard. The brevity of his opening statement was all the more powerful. Few words. Simple words, carefully chosen and straight from his soldier’s heart:

            “ _I saw what I saw. I did what I was ordered to do because, above all else, I wanted to protect my country. I did what a soldier is expected to do. And then I saw the face of one of my closest friends on the battlefield as the face of my enemy…and everything changed forever….”_

 

“Perhaps I do not understand your country’s government,” Prince Sheng turned to Ed after they had taken their seats on the fourth morning of testimony. Kelley Winchell, relieved of the recording device she had shoved into her cleavage a few days before, kept giving the young alchemist suspicious looks, as if a foreigner did not belong in an Amestrian governmental tribunal. Ed told her to fuck off and invited the prince to sit with his family. “They have stated that he is not to be prosecuted for his actions on the battlefield. Yet, did he not admit to his actions? I do not mean to be insulting, Edward-sama, but in my country he might have been beheaded if the regime had changed and he had been a participant in—“

            “ _Genocide._ You can say it. It won’t piss any of us off.” There was no use tiptoeing around it—even Roy had used the word on the witness stand. “Hey, I’ve lived here my whole goddamn life and I don’t always understand this either, “ Ed replied with a shrug. “What is it you don’t get?”

            “They said they will not press charges of war crimes against the President, even though he admitted that he had killed the Ishballan civilians during the Dahlia campaign.”

            Ed shuddered inwardly, remembering Roy’s brief, graphic and extraordinarily candid testimony. Ed had learned of the atrocities the night he’d returned Hawkeye’s gun and taken tea with her in her apartment so many years ago. But Hawkeye’s cool narrative was nothing compared to hearing his husband’s meticulous, dispassionate narrative. Roy had managed to maintain his composure, but the subtle body language Ed had learned so well practically screamed with barely contained fury at the memories of what the young major had been ordered to do.

            _“In the end,”_ Roy had concluded, _“it is for the Ishballan people to ultimately determine my guilt. Had I not been called to serve my country as Fuhrer by General Grumman, I would have remained in Ishbal the rest of my days , in service to its people. I cannot bring back the lives I destroyed—but I can—and I will continue—to do what I can to help the survivors of the war and the generations to follow.”_

Ed drummed his fingers along the top of his metal knee. “Bottom line, Sheng—Roy was a kid. A kid who went into this man’s army with these bone-headed ideas of saving the world. That’s what he wanted to do. What he always wanted to do—protect other people. Only he got sent into a stupid war against innocent people and was told ‘you kill them—or we shoot you’. Say that to a scared young guy who’s been taught to follow orders without questions for the good of his people, what the hell do you expect him to do? He was told to protect Amestris, and that’s what he thought he was doing…right up until he found out that those so-called insurgents in the Dahlia Sector included innocent women and kids—and one of his best friends. One hell of a reality check.” Ed sighed, glancing around the room. “You don’t see any of the old officers in here, do you? ‘Cause most of ‘em are dead now. Anybody’s ass were to take a trip to the gallows, it would be the dicks that gave the orders.”

            Nina, who was sitting along the aisle, leaned across her brother. “Daddy— _look_.” She gestured as a robed delegation of Ishballan clergy were taking their seats in the front row of the hall. “Is that--?”

            “—I know that guy,” Maes cut in. “Ohh, shit!”

            “So do I,” Ed confirmed grimly. “ That’s Priyanand Lowe. He’s the Grand Cleric of the Ishballans---and I know what Bradley did to his father…..”

 

TO BE CONTINUED……

 

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: For the second time in the telling of this tale I had to take a long hiatus from writing—and from everything else in my life. Some of you know that in 2013 I underwent emergency surgery from an infected spider bite. As far as we knew, all the infection had been removed.

I was wrong.

I was told in September 2014 that the infection had, in fact, gone down to my bones and without surgery and treatment I would not survive. The last several months have been a time of serious illness, multiple surgeries and a very long stay in Intensive Care. Now that I have my life back and my physical therapy has me feeling human again, it’s good to be writing again. My recovery is going very well, and if I can say in a year’s time that I have not climbed back onto an operating table, I will fully accept myself as healed.

Thank you all for your good thoughts, support and encouragement—you have no idea how much it means…..)

 


	41. "THE WEIGHING OF ONE MAN'S SOUL"(The Trial of Roy Mustang, pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a daring move that shocked even Edward, Roy Mustang has invited the Grand Cleric of the Ishbal to take the stand in Roy’s trial—as a witness for the prosecution!

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 41: THE WEIGHING OF ONE MAN’S SOUL

(the trial of Roy Mustang, Part Two)

By The Binary Alchemist 2014

 

_Nina, who was sitting along the aisle, leaned across her brother. “Daddy—look.” She gestured as a robed delegation of Ishballan clergy were taking their seats in the front row of the hall. “Is that--?”_

_“—I know that guy,” Maes cut in. “Ohh, shit!”_

_“So do I,” Ed confirmed grimly. “That’s Priyanand Lowe. He’s the Grand Cleric of the Ishballans---and I know what Bradley did to his father…..”_

            “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

            A thin brown hand touched the wrapped scroll in his arms with gentle reverence. ‘I do. And by the laws of my people, I vow before Ishballah, the Maker and Shaper of All Life, that I will speak no falsehood nor bear false witness for any man. “

            The solemn robed priests bowed as the crumbling scroll was returned to their care. “Heard and Witnessed. May His holy name be praised.”

            The Prime Minister, newly elected by a vote among her Peers, nodded in approval. “Thank you. Will you please state your name and tribal rank for the assembly?”

            “I am Priyanand Lowe, Grand Cleric of the State of Ishbal and priest and servant to her people.”

            “Thank you, Grand Cleric. For the record, you were not subpoenaed to appear at this hearing. I have been informed that you have chosen to testify at the request of President Mustang. Is this correct?”

            Lowe bowed. “Indeed. And,” he lifted a cautionary gesture, “it was not to speak in the President’s defense. I was asked to appear as a hostile witness.”

            Ed’s head snapped to the right, eyes blazing. “Hostile witness?!?” he hissed to the uniformed man at his side. _“Are you out of your goddamned mind?!?”_

            Roy ignored him. The whole of his attention was focused on the white robed figure taking his seat in the witness stand. Rising, he bowed to the Prime Minister. “That is correct, Ma’am. As I stated under oath, it is ultimately the right of the Ishballan people to judge me. My crimes during the Dahlia Campaign were against his people, not our own. And while I am aware and grateful that the Parliament has decided not to sue for the death penalty…” Roy’s voice trailed off, one hand extended towards the Grand Cleric and his priests.

            “President Mustang has stated that he will abide by any and all judgments made by our Holy Council, including resigning from the Amestrian presidency and returning to our country to accept any punishment that is deemed appropriate, that the Balance of Justice –what your alchemists call ‘equivalent exchange’—is kept.” Lowe nodded towards the rear of the room where a tall, familiar figure in the gleaming white uniform of the Ishballan Guard. “In the event of a judgment against the President, he has agreed to place himself into the custody of Colonel Miles.”

            Shocked, a furious Ed turned worried eyes towards his daughter, reaching quickly for her hand. _Ohh shit…she’s going to lose it_ , he panicked inwardly. _What kind of fucked up game is Roy playing? I am sooo gonna punch his lights out—_

“I’m fine. Let’s do this.” 

            _Fine? How the hell could she be—_

Her green eyes locked onto his golden ones. “Either we believe in him or we don’t. I stand with Poppy. _Do you_?”

#####

 

            “ _God’s wrath will smite you for your wickedness”_

_“_ I have heard that those were the last words of my father, Grand Cleric Logue Lowe. Those words were spoken to your former head of state, Fuhrer King Bradley. He had surrendered himself to Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, in hopes that he might be able to offer his life in exchange for the lives of our people. It availed him nothing

            “The Dahlia Campaign left me homeless, motherless, fatherless, with only my faith and my anger to sustain me. I was thankfully whole and unharmed and as the Grand Cleric’s son I was taken in to the _sangham_ —the brotherhood of priests. It was the hand of Ishballah that guided me into a refuge among great souls who helped me understand and master my grief and rage.

            “I know I do not need to recount to this assembly the events of what has come to be known as The Promised Day. It was, in its own way, a Day of Mercy. On that day, the Ishballan people returned good for evil and the alchemy of three peoples—Ishballan, Xingese and Amestrian—were combined in harmony and a madman was brought to naught. All suffered on that day, and it was only by combining our hearts and our wills and our arts did we survive.

            “It is not that day that I speak, but of the days that followed—the days when a soldier’s heart was offered to be weighed and judged—and judged he was.

            “Not by man…but by a beast……”

#####

            Tugging my wrap close against the morning chill, I stood on that high plain where the fresh green surrenders its struggle against the vast Eastern Desert. As yet, the cacophony of bells and chanting that call the world to prayer had not begun when the train from Central finally arrived.

            Terminus. Our name for this station. End of the line, yes, but more than that. A line between belief and, to our minds, heresy. Those non-believers—those secular people and alchemists—theirs was the green land. Only the staunch souls –the faithful sons and daughters of Ishballah—could survive on upon the brown sand. “Ishballah created this land of sand and rock to train his Faithful” I had been told from the cradle, and that my eyes and skin and hair were the literal marks of His setting His own apart from all other men.

            And now a pale-skinned infidel who had once burned and spilt my people’s blood was arriving on the morning train to make the first genuine overtures of peace

            The woman came with him. I was to learn that she always followed him, as shadow follows sunlight. In fact, the first words I heard from were addressed to the woman:

            “At ease, Hawkeye. I’m not helpless.”

            I noted the care he exercised as he stepped down from the train, his yet-sensitive eyes blinking and watering behind smoke-lensed eyeglasses. Quickly, he tugged down the brim of his soldier’s cap before gathering up his suitcase and duffle bag, which he swung over one broad shoulder. A fleshly man with a russet brush of close cropped hair joined him, matching him pace by pace, the woman never stepping out of the General’s shadow.

            When I approached, he saluted—one peer to another. His voice was deep and carefully modulated to sound both respectful and non-confrontational.

            I offered him my hand. He gripped it firmly. _The hand of a killer is now pledged to build the peace,_ I thought to myself. _Ishballah, show this man’s heart to us—and ours to him. And if he does no good, may he do no evil. So be it._

)O(

            _“Working from dawn to dusk and from can to can’t.” That’s what the man Breda called it._

_“Don’t read so long, sir. You don’t want to strain your eyes,” said the woman Hawkeye._

_And now there were more of them:_

_“Sir, let me adjust the keystroke tension in your typewriter. Your hands are still healing.”_

_“Hey Chief! Gotcha that seed consignment for the spring planting if you’ll just sign here…”_

_“Tea. Yes Sir! Would that be Camilla Sinensis, or—“_

            Sometimes he listened to them. For the most part, he did not. Orders were given. Advice ignored. He went his own way, until at some point the woman Hawkeye would bark at him and tell him to rest his eyes unless he wanted to go blind again. And then there was the afternoon when I was admitted into his office and found him reclining on the couch, a cold wet cloth over his tired eyes. “Cucumbers would feel better,” I suggested.

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “Not to eat. Slices over your eyes. Very healing and soothing.”

            He sat up and blinked. “Really.”

            He looked so comical with his damp disheveled hair, sitting there in his shirtsleeves like a common man. I couldn’t help but laugh at him, and to my relief he did not take offence. “I’ll send my son around with some from my garden. Enough for your face and a few for your dinner. My wife Yalta grows plenty. She could poke a stick in the dust and a rose would bloom from it. In a land of hunger, she has more than enough to share.”

            _“Hunger….”_ His face hardened and his feeble eyes blinked painfully as he stared out the window. “Hunger offends me. It’s a cause of war. Desperate people take desperate measures.” Abruptly, those eyes were turned to my face and focused sharply despite the blinking and watering. “How many are hungry in this village?”

            “More than I can count, General.”

            “One is too many.” He reached for his smoked lenses. “Tell me who. Tell me where,” he commanded.

            “More than you can feed tonight.”

            For the first time, I saw his smile. It was tight and cynical and made me feel cold inside. “Really? We’ll see about that, Lowe….”

            He stalked over to the telephone. “Fuhrer Grumman, please. No I won’t wait. He knows better than to make me---Sir. You didn’t tell me there was hunger, Sir. I’m getting a report from the Grand Cleric.” He listened and snorted with amusement. “Thank you, Sir!”

            Rising, he gestured for me to follow him to the barracks warehouse. “Get me the Quartermaster,” he snapped. Words were exchanged. Not all of them were cordial. Then Mustang snapped his fingers and suggested cheerfully that if the Quartermaster didn’t unlock the food storehouse doors, he could melt them down to tin slag. “Fuhrer Grumman is diverting a food shipment to this base. It will be here in two days. Get these rations to your people, Lowe. I’ll lend you a truck. It’s not a solution but it’s a start.”

            “But—but General!” the Quartermaster protested. “If you give away our rations, what do we eat?”

            Mustang turned to me and I could see the corner of his mouth lift in amusement.

            “ _Cucumbers._ ”

)O(

            He was pale and grim and frequently humorless. It made him uneasy when people began to approach him in the street to thank him for some kindness or blessing: a new well in one village, seeds and saplings for another, food for our bellies and the tools and means to feed ourselves in the days to come. When my son Jaya was badly hurt in an accident, Mustang sent his own physician to care for him. He provided money for the good Doctor Marcoh to set up clinics and medical dispensaries to care for our sick and to make sure that our mothers and babies were well and strong. Instead of taking over, he chose to offer training for our people, and under Marcoh our healers greatly improved their art. The man who had inflicted such horrors upon our people was helping us to lift ourselves up—with dignity and respect.

            It was Mustang who tactfully and respectfully handled the negotiations with our council of elders and priests as to whether or not to allow alchemists to use their arts to search for water and dig our much-needed irrigation ponds.

            His solution was to bring a delegation of five remarkable alchemists from four countries. They were Master May Chang of Xing, Izumi Curtis and Alphonse Elric from Amestris, Julia Creighton from Milos and Sensei Miyazaki Hikari from Nihon, who had recently wed the Emperor Ling Yao. These worthy women and this young man gained our trust and respect by their own merits and their devotion to serving others. This was not the alchemy of blood and violence we had seen in the wars, or defense and protection as our brother, The Nameless One, had witnessed in Central on the Promised Day. They spent much time listening to the ‘pulse of the Dragon’ as Master May called it—choosing with great care how to coax the water from the bedrock and contain it safely. Such care and respect and veneration for the sacred earth showed to many of our people that—within respectful limits—alchemy was not always a thing to fear.

            That autumn we had cold sweet water to drink and the alchemists joined us in the sand, as two more alchemists, Fletcher and Russell Tringham, spoke to us about choosing the crops that would thrive in our soil and later made good on their promise and returned in the spring with a wealth of seeds and shoots and viable saplings that are now our cherished oasis lands. Such care was made not to upset the balance of desert and green! And such a joyous harvest to give thanks for! And these seven alchemists and the Fire Alchemist who had brought them all together to help our people sat among us in our temple, listening in respectful silence to our grateful prayers to Ishballah who has caused His people to establish their Promised lands at last.

 

            My Jaya became as a shadow to the General, asking him endless questions and to my surprise the General treated my son kindly, eventually giving him a job as his messenger boy, gruffly presenting my son with a bicycle of his own to help him get around. Behind closed doors, Yalta, Jaya and I included him in our prayers, asking Ishballah to bless and protect the General and to give ease to whatever regrets and sorrows so clearly burdened the good man’s heart….for he _was_ a good man, for all his stern expressions and seeming coldness.

            One night after temple, Jaya approached me about the lesson we had read from the Holy Scripture. “Abba,” he asked me, “today we learned about the Saddiq, the Righteous souls that walk unknown in this world.” I nodded, encouraging him to continue. “They say that the Saddiq walk among us, not even knowing themselves that they are instruments of Grace, but if you see with the eyes of the heart you will know them by their goodness.”

            “That is so. Why do you ask?”

            “General Mustang feeds the hungry. He helps the sick. He is helping us help ourselves, not just taking over like the Amestrians did before, when Grandfather was killed. He won’t let you thank him or repay him. All he ever thinks about is making up for what he did in the war. Abba?” he drew a deep breath. “Can an unbeliever be one of the Saddiq?” I could not hide the astonishment on my face. Mustang was raised in a house of sin. A libertine. He drank and swore and heaven only knew what else…and the horrors he had inflicted on our people and our cities were so terrible that…

            I shook my head. “The General is a good man who was made to do evil. He has taken the burden of repentance upon his soul, which is what Ishballah asks of us. ‘The penitent heart shall be washed clean of its stains, and he shall be as if he were newborn, in his original innocence.’ I believe that one day he will forgive himself as Ishballah has surely forgiven him, unbeliever or not. But a Saddiq….I cannot know….I cannot say…”

#####

            As they adjourned for the morning recess, Ed turned suddenly to Prince Sheng. “That was your mother, right? I didn’t know she worked with Al in Ishbal.”

            The young alchemist bowed his head, smiling a little. “I was there too, only I could not be of much help. Oka-san has always wondered if carrying me in her womb during the great works in the desert influenced me before my birth, making me as I am. It runs in families, you know.”

            Ed removed his glasses and scrubbed at his eye, which looked reddish and irritated. “I have got to get this prescription changed,” he grumbled. “Damn things are useless. Didn’t realize it until we were in the courtroom. Bad lighting, I guess.”

            Nina and Sheng exchanged glances. “Eyestrain, Daddy?”

            “Must be.” He shrugged and knuckled his eyes again. “Everything gets hazy, like there’s a mist around people, but then it gets really sharply focused. Goes in and out. Been reading too much with crappy glasses and it’s straining my eyes.”

            Nina looked and her father, suddenly very serious. “Possibly not.”

            “ _Probably_ not,” Sheng corrected. “This started this morning?”

            Ed frowned. “Yeah….guess so.”

            “When did your vision become blurry? Are you still having trouble?”

            Ed glanced across the courtyard, his eyes following Roy as his husband conferred quietly with Hawkeye and Havoc. “Weird, it’s fine now.”

            “And if you look….there, to your right. At the Cleric and his priests?”

            Ed turned his eyes. Immediately, he began to squint and blink.”Shit!”

            Alphonse touched his brother’s shoulder. “Something wrong, Ed?” He turned to Prince Sheng who nodded. _“Ohhhh…”_ Al nodded and grinned, finally comprehending what was happening to his older brother.

            “Ohh _what,_ Al? What, have I got a brain tumor or something?”

            “You’d have to have a brain in the first place,” Al laughed, turning suddenly to slap hands with Maes, who had joined them. “You’re gonna be fine, Ed. Better than fine!”

            Blond eyebrows began to knit themselves into an irritated scowl, but before he could snap at his family’s baffling behavior, Prince Sheng folded his hands and bowed ceremoniously to the elder Elric. “’ _Aditiya hridayam punyam, sarv shatru benah shanam.’ ‘Evil has no place within my heart, for the light of Truth shines within me.’”_ He lifted his eyes to Alphonse. _“Satori.”_

“Daddy, all those years you’ve heard Master May talk about seeing the _chi_ —the vital force of the body. Most of the time, it’s hard to see without really concentrating, but when you’re in the presence of someone of exceptional power, you can feel it---and sometimes see traces of that.” Nina took her father’s hands in her own and squeezed them tightly.

            “It’s the first step to finding the Dragon’s Pulse, the first step in learning Alkahestry and the Grand Arcanum.” Maes looked proudly at his father. “You’re finding your way back, Dad. No shit.”

            “Well I’ll be goddamned,” Ed swore softly.

            “You are waking up, Ed. “Alphonse smacked his brother playfully on the back of his head. “About time, you stubborn asshole!”

 

……..TO BE CONTINUED…..

 


	42. THE JUDGMENT OF ROY MUSTANG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Amestrian media is going wild with the story of the year—will Roy Mustang really step down from the Presidency and accept judgment at the hands of the Ishballan Clerics? The son of murdered Grand Cleric Logue Lowe is ready to pass final judgment on the Flame Alchemist for his actions in the Ishballan Massacre…

OUR LIVES CHAPTER 42: THE JUDGMENT OF ROY MUSTANG

(The Trial of Roy Mustang, part 3)

By The Binary Alchemist, 2-14

_“STOP THE PRESSES!!! Holy crap, this is the scoop of the century!”_

            The hearing had only been adjourned for less than five minutes before every phone booth on Parliament Square was jammed with the bodies of frantic newshounds, shoving cens into the coin slots and screaming into the receivers that Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist and President of Amestris, was going to resign from office—that is, if a certain powerful Cleric declared him accountable for his crimes during the Ishballan War. “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Frank Archer bellowed above the ruckus. “Bet this will send Samuelson’s ratings through the roof!” Roy’s opponent in the presidential race had taken a huge dip in the polls once his war chest of ready cash quickly ran out after Olivier Armstrong cut off his purse strings. She’d have preferred to cut off something else—his balls, for example—for inciting violence against alchemists with his inflammatory speeches. “I’d geld you,” she told him heatedly over the phone, “but you were born without your manhood. So I’m cutting off your…. _compensation_.” Samuelson’s campaign has been floundering ever since.

            But on the call in lines on Radio Capital, the first wave of reaction from the citizens of Central there was a surprising trend: the people were actually supporting the President’s startling decision to let the Ishballans decide his fate. Garrison Moyers, recently appointed as news director, grabbed a pair of headphones and began taking live calls on _The Morning View_ , which aired just before _Midday Amestris_.

            “Y’know…it takes guts to do this. I mean, it was a war and all. Things happen and the army brass did what they thought they had to do at the time. But you gotta be a real man to face the people you tried to wipe out and let them judge you. Don’t think I could do that.”

            “…no, I don’t think he’s bowing to our former enemies. I mean, if he steps down, Prime Minister Ingro will be in charge, right? I think he’s doing this as a peacemaker, and—“

            “—I hope he they do pardon him. We can’t change the past but he’s done so much to---“

            _“Hey Garrison! Suck my---“_

            “We’ve got time for one more caller. Go ahead, ma’am. You’re on the air.”

            There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a woman clearing her throat.”Hello, Garrison…my name is…is… _Maude…_ and I think---“

#####

            “Hadn’t we better get back in the _Mrfrffff!!!”_ Not that Edward was ever averse to demonstrations of Roy’s affection, but this fierce embrace in the private counsel room had taken him by surprise. But it felt good, and Ed leaned into it, chin resting comfortably on his husband’s shoulder. “What brought this on?”

            “A need of moral support.” After a moment, Roy drew back and studied Edward’s face very carefully. “Maes told me. _Satori_ , they call it. The shift of perception. I’ve read of such things, but nobody ever talks about it—at least not in my hearing.”

            “I thought it was superstitious bullcrap. Trying to wrap some sort of mythic or religious window dressing on something as basic as alchemy.”

            “Huh. Basic for you, maybe.” Reaching into Ed’s pocket, he pulled out the offensive spectacles. “Here. You’re still short-sighted. Developing abilities aren’t going to be an excuse if the police stop you for driving without corrective lenses….not that they improve your driving all that much. You and Maes tend to leave a trail of wrecked fenders wherever you go.”

            “Bite me.”

            “Anyway,” Roy continued, straightening his collar and smoothing his hair, “we need to head back. If anybody goes out of focus or starts glowing or anything strange, keep it to yourself. There’s a limit to just how eccentric an ‘eccentric genius’ is allowed to be before the men with the butterfly nets come after you.”

            Ed responded to that sally by grabbing Roy by the shoulders, kissing him hard and noisily and then mussing up Roy’s hair before darting out the door before his husband.

            Roy gazed after him, his expression sobering. “’ _To keep in the dark an awakening mind—that is a dangerous thing’,”_ he quoted softly from the _Pearl Sutra of Xerxes_ , one of the most ancient alchemic texts ever uncovered in Xing.

            “You’ll have to leave, Ed. And soon….”

#####

            “Welcome back, Maude.” Mustang slid into his seat and turned behind to wave at his unauthorized biographer. “Hope you didn’t break any nails dialing your collaborator, Archer.”

            “Nope. She did call into _Morning View_ ,” Havoc answered for her. “Kain caught her on the wireless.”

            “ _Really.”_ Mustang looked amused. “Well, it’s a free country—at least it is during this administration. If Maude wants to voice her citizen’s opinion about me on the air, far be it for me to tell her no. “

            He then turned his attention to his legal team, ignoring her completely.

            After several long minutes, Maude Kelly Winchell began to fidget in her seat. One manicured hand worried at her left earring. A pink leather handbag was snapped open and closed as she rooted for something she couldn’t find inside, mainly because the security guards and Colonel Hawkeye had confiscated everything except her wallet, a tube of lipstick and a roll of breath mints.

            She shifted from one butt cheek to the other. She _sighed_. She nibbled on her lower lip.

            Eventually she cracked, as Roy knew she would. “ _Aren’t you even slightly interested in what I said about you on the radio?”_

            Roy didn’t even bother to turn around. “No.”

            Breda leaned in, voice low. “But sir, she—“

            “Easy, Breda,” his President answered, smothering a grin. “She’s far more entertaining this way. And frankly,” he lifted his eyes and nodded as Priyanand Lowe and his priests swept back into the chambers, “right now, I can use all the laughs I can get…”

#####

            “Grand Cleric.” The Prime Minister rose, tapped her gavel on the bench and gestured for the Ishballan leader to rise. “You may continue your testimony.”

            Lowe stood and bowed humbly. “I shall not take much more of your time. The remainder of my testimony shall be brief. Then I will, as requested, offer my judgment for the consideration of this court.”

#####

            Winters are a test of the soul for those who dwell in the desert, brutal and unforgiving. But thanks to the efforts of the General and his alchemists and his team, we had much to look forward to in the spring ahead of us. The earth was resting after being tilled and dug and shaped into irrigated fields. “Let the land rest over winter,” the wise woman Izumi told us, so we tended our goats and built and planned for what was to be the first of many seasons of plenty when the spring arrived.

            The General had been invited to return to Central to assist President Grumman. He declined, replying back that he had a lifetime of work ahead of him and had hardly made a dent in it. “We’re provisioned enough to just make it through the winter, but if there’s sickness—“

            But there was none. Food was not abundant but everyone was fed enough. One evening after we had met to discuss the spring plantings, I had invited him to my home for supper. “Yalta has made goat’s head soup with barley, a very fine supper indeed. She told me to tell you she is expecting you at sundown.”

            He looked uncomfortable. Seldom did he ever accept anyone’s hospitality, and then only because it is a custom among the Ishballan people to share whatever they have, for to feed someone is to share Ishballah’s blessing. “Come, my friend. You cannot refuse Yalta’s hospitality.”

            With reluctance, he accepted. Without a word, he changed directions, walking towards the souk. ‘Yalta likes figs, right?” I hid my smile to salve his dignity. What he was intending to say without words was that he would not break bread with us unless he could contribute to the supper. “Colonel Hawkeye bought some this morning. Said they were better than usual.”

            “Yalta would enjoy them, yes.”

            “Should be some dried apricots this season. And walnuts. Jaya’s favorite.”

            “If we have figs and apricots and walnuts, then Yalta will teach you to make _chikki_. A sweet we make for feast days. We grind dried fruit and walnuts and date sugar in a mortar and add cardamom and rose water---“

            He stopped abruptly, holding up his hand. On the other side of the souk, someone was shouting and cursing in a drunken voice. We heard the crack of a whip and the General took off without me, marching straight through the stalls to find out what the commotion was all about.

            Pride is mankind’s downfall, and my people are not exceptions. We try to live a godly life, yes, but we are, all of us, struggling from day to day with our baser desires and temptations.

            Now, Ishballah gave us the juice of the pomegranate to quench our thirst and taught us to press wine that lifts our hearts when we sing his praise—but one must know when to put the cup down and fold the wineskin away. A cup of pomegranate wine, warm and spiced in the winter, will drive the chill away, but it is potent, as our Amestrian guests had learned. A cup will warm you body and soul; more that this and a man will forget his dignity and honor and as his fit of drunkenness takes over his mind he becomes lower than a dog. And only a man who has fallen lower than a dog would stoop to whipping a pregnant mare in the souk at dusk, cursing at her as if the poor creature bore the burdens of all the man’s sorrows.

            Is there any sound more heart-rending than the scream of a terrified horse? You must understand—to the people of the desert, one’s horse is one’s trusted companion. “You may keep secrets from your wife and your brother, but to your horse and your God, you must always tell the truth.” Even in this day of automobiles and motorcycles, the horse is essential to our culture. Beating a dog is a terrible crime, but lashing a horse in anger seemed incomprehensible to me.

            Pandak—I knew him but not well. Some men cannot give up their anger and trust to Ishballah. His temper was a thing he would not govern; it had caused his wife and son much sorrow and they had abandoned him a year before. He spent his coin in the wine seller’s stalls, drinking without thought or caution.

            Now, Pandak had a splendid mare named Bulbul—Nightingale—which was groom-gift to him from his wife’s dowry when they married . Bulbul was bred to only the best stallions and each year Pandak has profited from the sale of a foal each winter. But since his wife had left him the mare was not well cared for. Her withers had become bony and her mane and coat badly kept. She had been bred the year before but had not prospered; the foal was lost. Now he stood here in the dusk as the torches were lit, flailing wildly at the poor beast’s flanks and shouting. “ _I should sell you for dog meat, you bitch! Jumping the fence and letting some strange beast mount you! Nobody will buy a foal by an unknown sire! I ought to beat that foal out of your belly and---“_

I did not have time to shout, it happened so quickly.

            Arching above my head, a thin ribbon of flame danced at the command of the Flame Alchemist, and as bystanders screamed, my companion directed it straight at Pandak. There was not one soul in that souk that saw the fire that did not scream in terror, remembering well what this Amestrian had done here before…

            …but with delicate precision, it was the whip—not the man—that burst into flame. Pandak was granted a brief instant to blink in surprise before the General’s fist slammed into Pandak’s jaw, slamming the drunken fool face down into the sand. The mare, Bulbul, fled in terror, stampeding through the stalls like a mindless thing.

            Yanking Pandak roughly to his knees, Mustang’s face was twisted with fury. He cocked back his arm to strike Pandak again but checked his own anger, giving him a hard shake instead. The General’s voice was the low growl of a desert lion. _“That’s enough!”_ Ripping the braid from his shoulder, he quickly bound Padak’s wrists behind his back. “Lowe, have the village watch take him away. Keep him under guard until he’s sober, and they let your people judge him. Get him out of my sight!” He rose to his feet. “I’m going to find the mare before she gets hurt.”

            A glob of spit struck the General’s coat. “Hey, you! Amestrian bastard! You tried to burn me alive and now you steal my horse?”

            The General gazed at Pandak coldly, then reached inside his coat to draw out his wallet. Removing his identification cards, he stuffed the wallet inside Pandak’s shirt. “Have the watch count it for you. It should be more than enough, including that foal you wanted to sell for dog’s meat. “ He turned to the shopkeepers. “Heard and witnessed?”

            “Heard and witnessed,” they answered to a man, and Pandak was led away—a richer man, for certain, but unfortunately none the wiser…

)O(

 

            “This is bad. Really damn bad.”

            The poor beast shivered in agony. Galloping blindly, Bulbul had stumbled among the rocks and fallen badly, ungainly from the weight of her unborn foal. One foreleg was bent at a sickening angle. Her eyes were rolling in her head and her dusty coat was slick with sweat even in the chill of nightfall. The sounds she made were fearful to hear. “She cannot be healed of this. You must do what is merciful, my friend,” I told Mustang. Laying my hand upon the creature’s brow, I whispered a blessing. “Do it now. I can’t bear to see her suffer.”

            “Neither can I,” Mustang answered grimly, “but there’s another life at stake here.” He touched her heaving belly. “Go back and get Marcoh. He can—“

            “Doctor Marcoh is East City. You told me that yesterday.”

            Mustang swore sharply under his breath. “Then get Doctor Lin. If she can deliver a baby, she might know something about foaling. If there’s anybody in the village that can help, get them out here.” He shivered in his coat. “Can you get some firewood? I need to get her warm. She’s in shock. If I can’t save her, I have to save the foal if I can.”

)O(

            In the end, there was nothing that could be done. The lady doctor hurried out in her jeep, bringing water, blankets, milk for the foal in a feeding pitcher, and one of our stablemen who knew more about beast medicine than she did. “I’ve got morphine,” she told the General, “but if I give her enough to ease her pain it might make it difficult for her to foal—and that that’s going to put them both at risk.”

            “What do we do?” he asked simply.

            “I’ve got lidocaine. I can try a local anesthetic for her limbs and give her a moderate analgesic, but, again, since she’s in labor….”

            “She will not survive, “ the stableman told me frankly. “I would cut the foal from her belly. Take the little one now and it may have a chance.”

            The mare screeched and puffed frantically. Mustang had seen enough. “End it—and try to save the foal.”

            The stableman brought out a long, cruel-looking spike and a heavy mallet. “Like that?” Doctor Lin asked with a frown. The stableman nodded.

            Mustang shook his head and drew his service revolver from where he kept it, concealed inside the folds of his greatcoat. “I’ll take responsibility.” He knelt beside the mare, speaking softly and gently to her. He made those strange, soothing sounds a rider makes to his horse as he caressed her sweaty forehead, pushing her tangled mane out of the way. “It’s what my father would have done.”

)O(

            It was bloody business cutting the foal from its dam’s belly. I stepped away but Mustang never moved, never leaving Bulbul’s side for even a moment. “My father was a cavalry officer, y’know,” he had told me. “Don’t have a lot of memories of him—my mother died when I was born, but Father and I had a few years together. I think my aunt told me Father took me riding the day I was born, because he was grieving for my mother. Just climbed up in the saddle with me inside his coat and galloped away so no one could see his tears. My best memories were of Father and horses and being together…”

            Now he watched another soul cut from its dead mother just as he had been, and there was an intense emotion in his eyes that I could not define if I tried. Practical Havoc had gotten some soldiers to erect an army shelter tarp over us, bringing lanterns and jugs of hot coffee. The lamplight revealed a harsh determination on Mustang’s face that the newborn, a filly, would survive.

            As soon as the little one was freed from its mother, Mustang crawled to it and began rubbing it down briskly with the blankets the doctor had brought. “C’mon,” he kept saying. “C’mon, damn it…live. _Live_. Don’t you dare die on me.”

            “Easy, Chief,” Havoc told him. “I was raised on a farm, you know? Sometimes they make it, sometimes they don’t. You never know with animals---“

            I would not have wanted to be in Havoc’s shoes when I saw Mustang’s reaction.

“It’s _life. And I intend to fight like hell to protect it.”_

)O(

He said he would fight like hell to protect a life. I am a witness to this. I watched how he worried over my people’s well being. I saw him take his own superiors to task for not seeing to the needs of my people. He ate cucumbers and gave up his own rations to feed others. He bargained with smugglers to get rare drugs into my country when sickness came over the land the next summer. He fought to get schools built, wells dug and roads paved. In his own gruff way, he was a kind and protective as a second father to my son Jaya and his friendship with my family has been tested many times and has never been found wanting.

This pale, grim-faced stranger walked among us, a spindly black filly following at his heels as faithfully as his own shadow. He smiled seldom. His laughter was rare and always sounded slightly bitter. And when my young son hugged him as he would have hugged a beloved family member, the General would freeze as if he dreaded being touched by another…he held us at arm’s length when we would have embraced him as one of our own.

He made our suffering his own.

_“Abba,”_ my son asked me again, _“is it possible for an Unbeliever to be one of the Saddiq?”_

I nodded towards the pale man and the dark horse at his side. “It is not for us to say, my son,” I told him. “But Unbeliever or not, Ishballah sees to it that even the smallest of candles drives away the darkness of the world. And it is His will and by His grace that the Tinderbox of War has lit the flames of peace between our peoples.”

#####

“However….that being said….the heart may change but deeds are written as if in stone.”

Ed’s hand clamped spasmodically on Roy’s arm. “ _Ohh fuck…fuck no…”_

“It is for his deeds in the Dahlia Campaign I have been asked to judge him, not for all he has done in the years that followed.”

The Grand Cleric drew a deep breath. “And for those deeds….I must pronounce him _guilty_ …”

There was a tiny gasp from the seats behind Roy Mustang. It might have been triumphant, but it wasn’t. Maybe it would have been if Maude Kelly Winchell hadn’t spent so much effort trying to discredit him, sneaking after him, eavesdropping for any crumb of information…

…and finding, much to her disgust, that he was a _good man_.

And when Garrison Moyers had given her a chance to speak her mind on Radio Capital, the caller ‘Maude’ had found herself utterly tongue tied, unable to lash out with the petty daggers of spite that she had so wanted to spew over the airwaves.

“He’s….” she finally mumbled, “ _okay._ ”

And now she listened intently with the whole assembly as Roy Mustang rose from his seat to accept his judgment from the people he had once massacred, so many years ago.

“General Roy Mustang,” Priyanand Lowe intoned solemnly. “I pronounce you guilty—heard and witnessed by the Elders and General Miles and your own Parliament. And it is the judgment of the Ishballan people that you---“ Lowe drew in a deep breath, “—be sentenced to…. _a lifetime of service._ Service to Amestris. Service to Ishbal. Service to Aerugo…to Creta, to Drachma, to Xing, to the Milos….in short, _in service to life itself._

“You are needed, Roy Mustang. I name you _Agni Shantideva_ , the Flame of Peace. You have work to do. I suggest you and your people stop this idiocy and that you get on with it.”

 

….TO BE CONTINUED…

 


	43. "ROTTEN TO THE CORE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Roy's family celebrates his seeming victory in the courts over the hearings regarding the Ishballan War, his old friend, the High Cleric pours him a cup of wine and offers Roy a devastating truth he cannot run from. Meanwhile, Kelley Winchell has the extreme bad fortune to end up in the wrong nightclub on the wrong evening with Alphonse, Havoc and Hawkeye....and an old friend from the mysterious east....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 43: ROTTEN TO THE CORE

By The Binary Alchemist, 2014

(lyrics to “Rotten To The Core” by Muriel Lillie, 1922)

 

            It wasn’t difficult to find the President. The Grand Cleric stepped out into the cool darkness of the soft spring evening and headed straight towards the modest grave of Cirrocco, the little black. A ring of oasis roses and the wild rock roses found on the desert’s edge surrounded a simple pedestal of shaped white stones, crowned with a bust of the President’s equine companion carved in black desert basalt. The stone carving had been based on a sketch Nina Elric had done and had been sculpted by hand by a professor at the Hohenheim Institute’s School of Art.

            _You may hide secrets from your wife—or husband, in this case. You may hide them from your brother, and from the God you claim you do not believe in…but you must tell only truth to your horse. I believe you have your own gods, my friend, but you would rather die than admit it. Your faith is in the ones you love and live to protect. If they are not faces of Ishballah, who else?_

            “ _Priya._ ” Mustang didn’t turn at his approach. “Did I remember to thank you for what you’ve done?”

            A thin, sun-browned hand clasped the President’s shoulder. “Between brothers, thanks are not necessary. And like it or not, Roy Mustang, you _are_ as a brother to my family.” He glanced back at the house. “Jaya, I believe, is taking tea with your children and their friends. They are fine children, Brother. Wise for their years and good hearted. And I can see that it does not matter to them or to you that you did not have a hand in their begetting.” He was quiet for a moment. “And the mother who bore them—you have no quarrel with her?”

            Gloved fingers traced the angle of Cirrocco’s cheek. “We get on well, actually. She and Ed buried the hatchet years ago”

            The old companions chuckled together. From a pocket in his robe, Lowe passed a small flask to Mustang. With the cap removed, the scent was instantly recognizable. “Pomegranate wine. Smuggled over the border? For shame, Lowe. You know that shouldn’t have gotten through customs.”

            A capful was passed to the President and he drank swiftly. “ _In wine there is truth,_ as our poets are fond of saying,” Lowe accepted the cap back and filled it once more. “I give my share to the honoring of friends that have passed.” Nodding towards the grave, he poured his libation upon the ground. “This has been a day of many truths, my friend, and this day has not yet ended. Do you know why I have given you a new name, Roy Mustang? Why I called you _Agni Shantideva_?”

            “Not a clue.”

            The Grand Cleric drew his hood up over his head, his narrow features vanishing into the shadows. “It will be the first of many new names that you will take as your own when you must leave Amestris…and that day is approaching with the speed of your long lost black desert mare. Is that not so, my friend?”

            Roy’s head bowed, his strong, scarred hands tightly gripping his knees. “ _Yeah.”_ He took the flask from the Grand Cleric, uncorked it and drained it to the last dregs. “And it _really_ pisses me off…”

*****

 

Kelley Winchell had hemorrhoids. A wretched thing to suffer, especially since they didn’t fit in with her image of herself as being a sleekly elegant woman of the world. There was something—she didn’t quite know— _common_ \---about having this type of rectal misery. It would bring her up short at times, rather like the way being called _Maude_ by Roy Mustang would do. It yanked her ego out of the tree tops and smashed it flat down to earth

After court was adjourned, Maude Kelley Winchell was equally embarrassed to find herself suffering from a ‘crisis of conscience, and it was every bit as painful and unnerving as a flare-up of her rectal miseries. Given the choice, she would rather squirt ointment up her angry backside and squirm painfully on cushions than have to squirm under the stern gaze of The Better Angels Of Her Nature and admit there was the slightest of chances that she might have been wrong about Roy Mustang. The thought of that itched and burned at her mind, the same way that blasted hemorrhoid itched and burned on the opposite end.

            The words had squeaked out of her on Radio Capital: “ _He’s….okay.”_

She’d rather yank a patch of hot depilatory wax off her hairy upper lip than admit that Roy Mustang had some redeeming qualities.

            As much as she hated to cross the threshold of Madame Mustang’s supper club and restaurant, she couldn’t resist the chance to overhear what the gossip of the hour was over Mustang’s peculiar ‘sentence’ from the Ishballan High Cleric…

 

*****

 

            “And how would you like to eat your crow, _Madame?_ Broiled? Fried? Perhaps with a wine glaze and served forth on a bed of wild rice and mushrooms?” It was that odious Rebecca Catalina, looking sleek and vicious in a fitted sheath gown of burgundy silk. She moved like a cat, that one—and nothing would have made Kelley happier than to see that cat trapped, shot and checked for rabies.

            “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” Kelley frowned at the menu and stared at her fingers as if they were soiled. “This is dirty. There’s grease all over it.” The menu was shoved in the direction of Rebecca’s midsection. “Get me a new one.”

            Rebecca inspected it carefully. “Considering we just unpacked them from the printer, I’d say if there’s anything greasy on the menu card, it’s oozing out of your soul.” She snapped her fingers. A waiter hurried to her side. “She’s here to snoop, but she wants dinner and drinks. Jacob, recite the menu for Miss Winchell, bring her a basket of hot rolls---and some of the _special reserve creamery butter._ Only the best—since she has such an informed opinion of the poor quality of our service, let’s prove her wrong.”

 

*****

Anytime the house became quiet Ed became concerned. Over the years he had become accustomed to a ruckus around him, instigated, more often than not, by his offspring. But Nina and Peta had gone back to Elycia’s flat, while Maes, Collins and Sheng Yao had offered to take Priyanand Lowe and his clerics back to the hotel, with plans for Jaya to join them later for coffee and late night conversation. Al had set off with Havoc and Hawkeye for the evening, and if Sebastian was prowling around he was too quiet to be detected.

            Ed found his husband sitting alone in the dark, whisky in hand. Enough light from the sliver of moon overhead filtered though the office curtains to sparkle on the cut crystal tumbler in his husband’s hands.

            He stepped up and laid his hand on the back or Roy’s neck. It felt too warm to the touch, His hand slid down Roy’s shoulder and arm in a caress, until their fingers laced together.

            _“Hey…”_ Roy glanced up, his face an empty canvas that had all emotions sponged away like watercolors….but if the canvas was empty, Ed could fill it up again.

            “ _Come with me…_

_*****_

“ Good evening, Miss Winchell. It’s good to see you. How is your dinner?” Alphonse Elric offered her a boyish grin as he stopped at her table. “I’m here with Jean and Riza, and it looks like you’re all alone. “Won’t you join us?”

            She glanced up at him, annoyed. _Chirpy bastard. I’d rather eat cat poo on whole wheat toast than have to sit at a table with Riza Hawkeye Havoc, or what_ ever _she was calling herself this week._ “Why would I want to do that?” _Other than the fact that he’s good looking and rich and famous and from what I’ve heard he’s been in more holes than a gopher on a golf course…mmm…now, there’s a thought…_

“Well, our table’s closer to the bandstand. I don’t know if you’ve been here for supper before, but the band is terrific and there’s always a good headliner performing.The Havocs couldn’t have welcomed her more warmly if she tumbled off her high heels and done a swan dive into a sewer. She changed her mind and pulled against Al’s handclasp. “I’ think I’d better---“

            Riza’s cognac eyes locked on to Winchell’s, rather like a sniper on a moving target. “ _Stay.”_

            Havoc pulled out her chair for her. “By all means.” Al draped her fur stole over the back of her chair, settled her at the table, filled his own glass with wine and set it before her. Havoc gestured towards the stage. “Show’s about to start…”

 

*****

For someone who rarely shut up, Edward had, over the years, come to appreciate the value of silence.

            His mother had also taught him not to talk with his mouth full; in a few moments, once he reached his objective, Ed hoped that he might score ten out of ten for good manners and 100 per cent for good technique. But Roy remained silent and unresponsive. _Goddamn it, you’re not drunk yet. C’mon, old man…come on. You reached me on one of the worst nights of my life—that night in the hospital in Central when every goddamn failure in my life came crashing down on me. You’re beating yourself up over the past, and that shit’s gotta stop—it’s gonna stop—right now…_

Roy’s head fell back against the back of the leather couch in his office. Words like _wait_ and _can’t_ and other feeble protests died as strong hands stroked their way up his inner thighs, followed by a warm mouth that nuzzled the fine wool of his trousers until he could feel Ed’s hot breath against his skin.

            Teeth worried at his belt until he heard Ed mutter, “give me a hand, willya?” Then it was butter-soft leather under his bare buttocks and the sides of his shirt were being peeled away from his now-sweaty chest. His spirit was willing, but the flesh—ah, that was another matter altogether.

            He didn’t even apologize. “Too much…all this stuff on my mind…”

            Ed yanked Roy’s shoes off and shucked the deep blue uniform trousers off his lover’s long legs. Pausing only to kick off his own shoes and garments and to unbutton his waistcoat and crisp linen shirt, Ed knelt between Roy’s spread thighs and regarded the older man warmly. “ Look,” he whispered, “I don’t care if you come. Hell, I don’t care if _I_ come. This has _never_ been just about sex,” and he lowered himself down, climbing onto Roy’s lap and wrapping his legs—flesh and metal—around Mustang’s hips. Ed pulled Roy tighter, closer, leaving no room for anything between their bodies including doubt.

            Roy squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed his face into Edward’s neck. “Listen,” Ed went on softly. “All this---you’ve had it weighing you down for a lifetime, old man. It’s not gonna just suddenly be okay overnight. Like when I got Al back. Took me a long time to stop waking up and just fuckin’ _knowing_ he was back in that damn armor and everything I’d done to save him had failed. I know, Roy. I fuckin’ _know._ That’s why _this,”_ his hand crept between their bellies and squeezed the softness against his hardness, “is okay. If you threw me to the floor and hammered me cross-eye’d, I’d be worried…because you’d be denying that you’ve taken a bad hit to the soul. “ His long fingers curled around his husband’s face, stroking. “It’s bad right now. It won’t be bad forever. You need time to wrap your head around what happened today—and what’s gonna happen tomorrow. You’re just numbed out and considering the shit that is going down, that’s normal.

            “All I’m sayin’ is…I got your back…” he squeezed again and chuckled, “ and your front. And just…hang on. We’ll make it.”

 

*****

            “Annnnd now—for one night only—we are proud to present the song stylings of a silver screen legend. Ladies and Gentlemen---a very warm welcome, please for—Miss Gladys Turlough!”

            Maude Kelley Winchell’s jaw nearly dropped into her untouched entrée. Ten feet in front of her, The Ice Cream Blonde swept onto the bandstand in a white chiffon something-or-other that hugged her narrow waist so tightly her breast threatened to spill out onto the dance floor.

            Jean Havoc was a wise man. He slipped his arm around Riza’s shoulders, his free hand slipping into hers, squeezing it tightly. A warm, steady gaze met his own, silently reassuring Jean that Riza was not planning to reach for any of the firearms currently concealed on her person.

            Alphonse, on the other hand, looked delighted. Slipping a single red rose from the vase in the middle of their table, he tossed it high into the air.     

            “I think I need to go powder my nose.”

            Kelley Winchell had had enough. The same could not be said for the audience, who roared with approval and sang along, especially when Gladys stepped down from the bandstand and began circulating through the tables, singing to all the men and even to a few of the women. And now she was making a slow, slinky beeline for Alphonse.

            Or so she thought.

            “HEY! We have a CELEBRITY here t’night, folks!” the starlet brayed. “Looky looky—it’s the girl who writes the bookys! It’s MAUDE KELLEY WINCHELL!!! Miz Winchell, I just gotta say that ‘Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf’ is just the _sweetest_ book—isn’t it, people? I mean you can just feel the _love_ between them, can’t you?” The audience tittered as Winchell squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, turning an impressive shade of red. “Oh, and she also-wrote-some-evil-trash-about-some-really-good-people-including-THE PRESIDENT---but we won’t hold it against her, _WILL WE_?”

            There were some half-hearted cheers but for the most part there was a low buzz of conversation and every eye in the room turned towards the pink-clad figure with the frozen smile and the wildly darting eyes that searched desperately for a graceful way out.

            “Ya know, I used to know a little song from the old music halls about a girl name Maude. Hey, Charlie? Remember how that one goes?” she called to the bandleader who nodded and waved his hands to his musicians….

_I was having lunch_  
With Maud the other day here,  
And I told her,”Maud, I know you’re feeling low.  
Your life feels just too dreary and depressing,  
But why it is, you really do not know.”  
Then as I spoke,  
I saw the truth quite clearly;  
I saw she was a vulgar, hollow, fraud.  
So then, I had another sip of brandy,  
And I leaned across the table, and I told her,  
“I hate to say but some of us are rotten to the core.”  
I said, “Maud, you’re full of maggots, and you know it.  
Your soul’s a bed where worms queue up to breed.  
You don’t know what life’s for, Maud,  
You’re rotten to the core, Maud.”  
And Maud agreed….*

            If she had been wearing her glasses, Kelley Winchell’s aim might have been better. As it was, the champagne bottle bounced off the bandleader, missing Gladys Turlough by several feet. Lurching to her feet, she grabbed for her handbag and began swinging wildly, screeching at the top of her lungs. She clipped Alphonse a good one on the side of the head, curses spitting out from her mouth like a volcanic eruption. At the same moment, the front door to the restaurant burst open and a wave of flashing lights filled the intimate supper club. Kelley didn’t notice any of this. She had lunged towards her nemesis, grabbed hold of Gladys’ pearl necklace and attempted to throttle the starlet with it. When Al dove into the fracas to try and break the two of them apart, he got a spiked heel in the gut for his troubles. Al dropped to his knees with a groan, clutching his abdomen.

            “AL!!” Havoc darted to his friend’s side, while Riza pulled a sidearm from somewhere within her evening gown. “Everybody stand dow--- _OOOF_!”

            A dozen reporters, snapping photos madly, stampeded right over her. “ _It’s HIM!”_ the mob kept bellowing. “It’s _him!”_

Crawling to her knees, Riza was about to fire over her head—but when she drew her pistol, she heard a shrill _‘KEEEYAAAAHHHH!”_ somewhere to her left side and the next minute she was back on the floor, clutching her arm. The pistol—gods only knew _how_ —had been kicked from her hand.

            _“Alphonse! You really know how to throw a party!”_

A familiar voice rang out above the chaos and there was a shrill whistle that caught everybody’s attention. From the hurricane of flying female fists and hand bags, a disheveled Gladys Turlough glanced up and smiled, throwing her hands out in delight. “ _KINGY!!”_

His Excellency, Emperor Ling Yao waved at his newest wife. “Honey…did you miss me??” he called cheerfully, seconds before a well aimed handbag soared over the crowd and caught the Lord of the Chrysanthemum Throne square in the face, bloodying his nose and knocking him unconscious…

 

 

#####

 

“Shit. It’s that obvious?” Ed whistled softly with disbelief.

“Yeah. Think about it. Priya and Jaya haven’t seen me face to face in years. If they noticed, sooner or later other people will.”

Ed’s fingers lightly flicked Roy’s sweaty fringe away from his forehead. The loving application of one over-active mouth had coaxed Roy back to life in spite of his stress. More relaxed than he had been, Roy now lounged on the sofa with his head on his lover’s chest, feeling pleasantly tired and sweaty. As Ed’s fingers lightly combed through his hair, he felt the tension creeping back into his shoulders.

“We could dye it. Not all—a couple of strands here and there…”

“And how much time to you really think that’s going to buy me? Or you, for that matter?” He sighed heavily. “Face it, Ed. Time is against us. We can play this charade only so long before---“

            “—before people realize that you and me and Al…and Teacher…aren’t aging normally. “Al’s theory is that Dad was sorta…I don’t know…kind of like a pattern. He didn’t age past a certain point. That… _thing_ ….didn’t age past a certain point. The only lines you have are from _worry_ , not time. You’re a public figure, Roy. Sooner or later, another Kelley Winchell is going to come along and suddenly it’s all over the goddamn papers. Best you can hope for is that they decide you’re dying your hair and getting plastic surgery….same for the rest of us. But we can’t go on forever.”

“No. We can’t.” Roy’s hand slid into Ed’s. “And you can’t ignore the alchemic power that’s waking up in you. You have to—no, damn it, listen to me! You _have_ to find someone to train you properly—and I don’t think anybody in Amestris is going to be able to help you. I think you’re going to—“

“---start again. With a new teacher. I know,” Ed groaned. “I don’t know who the hell can teach me, but an apprenticeship means—“

“—going away,” Roy finished.

“That is not going to happen,” Ed stated firmly. “I’m not leaving you.”

“And I’m not leaving you either. But,” Roy stared miserably into the darkness, “sooner or later…we’re going to have to get out of Amestris. All I’ve done…my whole life….I’m going to have to walk away from it before it’s too late and the press finally notices that I’m not growing old the same way as others do.”

Ed pulled him closer. “Well, it ain’t gonna be figured out tonight. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, when they start the questions about the Father thing and the stone and all that shit. Let’s not borrow trouble. Trouble’s gonna find us soon enough on its own. It always does….”

 

….TO BE CONTINUED….

 

 

 


	44. THE AGELESS SIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selim Bradley-born from a human woman, warped in the womb by the Father and the Philosopher's Stone. As the Homunculus Pride, he was a killer without conscience. Stripped of his power, he became Selim Bradley and was given a second chance that many would have thought he did not deserve...but Edward Elric did. Now, at the Promised Day hearings, he breaks his long silence. Meanwhile, after being clobbered by Kelley Winchell's purse in a bar fight, Emperor Ling Yao strikes a bargain with his son, the alchemist Sheng Yao, that may free the prince and keep Winchell's head off Ran Fan's chopping block....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 44: THE AGELESS SIN

By The Binary Alchemist 2015

 

_“You sure do have a pretty mouth.”_ A meaty arm slung itself around Kelley Winchell’s shoulder.

            The writer’s nose squinched up and she turned her head slightly to the left in a useless effort to avoid the reek of the inmate’s armpit. “Th—thank you,” she stammered. “It’s Merry Cay’s ‘Tickle Me Pink’.”

            “It looks like bubble gum.” The strange woman swung in closer. “I _like_ bubble gum. M’name’s Lillian. You got a girlfriend?”

            “Er…no.”

            “You _want_ a girl friend?”

            Winchell’s eyes looked like a deer caught in the searchlights of the 31st Drachman Armored Tank Division. “Ah…no…” she squeaked. “Um…wh…when d-do we get to see a lawyer?”

            The older woman frowned. “You got yer one phone call, didn’tcha?”

            The blonde head bobbed. “Yes—but I had to call my manicurist. She’s just _awful_! If I hadn’t rung her up, why, I’d _never_ have gotten another appointment with---“

            “You ain’t real smart, are ya, doll?” Lillian shook her head, “I don’t go for dumb broads. Later, Toots.”

 

#####

“The Emperor arrived last night, Excellency. He is currently sunning himself on the balcony of the Presidential Guest’s Suite…in his undergarments.”

            Roy’s bleary eyes shot wide open. He untangled himself from the sheets. _“Huh?”_

            “…and Miss Turlough is with him. She has removed her top to sun herself and asked for fresh squeezed orange juice.” The butler paused and Roy could have sworn he was fighting a grin. “I took the liberty to assign Major Havoc to front guard duty and requested someone else patrol the grounds.”

            “That’s….perceptive of you, Sebastian.”

            “I do my best. Oh, and I am pleased to say that both the Emperor, Miss Turlough, Colonel Hawkeye and Captain Elric have all been healed of their injuries, thanks to His Highness, Prince Sheng--“

            “ _Al’s hurt?”_ Ed stuck his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush jammed in one cheek, a damp towel wrapped around his lean hips.

            “Captain Elric is completely recovered and in good spirits. According to the reports in this morning’s papers, he was dining with Major Havoc, Miss Winchell and Colonel Hawkeye at Madame Mustang’s establishment, where Miss Turlough was performing. There was an apparent…incident. Miss Winchell became…distraught—“here Sebastian was doing a masterful job of concealing his amusement, “—and threw a bottle of champagne at Miss Turlough during her performance. Captain Elric attempted to restrain Miss Winchell, who was in the act of choking Miss Turlough by her own pearl necklace. He received a deep laceration to the abdomen after being kicked with a stiletto heel---“

            “ _Holy shit!!”_

“---and when Colonel Hawkeye attempted to restore order by firing overhead, the Emperor’s own bodyguard—“

            “Ran Fan?? What’s she doing here, Roy?”

            “—kicked the gun out of the Colonel’s hand, fracturing her wrist. The Emperor himself suffered a mild concussion and a broken nose when he was---“

            “Let me guess,” Ed growled. “Smacked in the face with a purse?” Roy stared at Ed in surprise. Ed wiped the toothpaste off his chin with the back of his hand. “She does that. Hurts like hell. Damn thing is full of notebooks and cameras and crap.”

            Roy reached into the nightstand without even looking. Pulling out a bottle of aspirins, he shook out three and popped them into his mouth, washing them down with the dregs of a bottle of stale ale from the night before. He ruffled his hair with frustration. “I do not have time to deal with this, not today of all days,” he grumbled. “Where is she?”

            “In protective custody at the police station. There is talk in the papers that she may be extradited to Xing to stand trial for attacking His Celestial Grace Emperor Ling.” The butler offered a stack of freshly ironed morning papers. Uppermost was _The Central Times_ , whose headlines blared “CELEBRITY AUTHOR CHARGED WITH ASSAULTING XINGESE EMPEROR” above a very unflattering photo of Maud Kelley Winchell being dragged away in handcuffs, a very furious looking Ran Fan seen arguing in the background—sword drawn—with the Chief of Police. Beside that was a photo of a battered looking Ling Yao on a stretcher, being loaded into an ambulance.

            Roy stared at the headline. He glanced up at Edward. One corner of his mouth turned up. His headache had vanished. “Get dressed,” he told his husband. “I never knew I could take such _perverse_ satisfaction in preventing an international incident…..”     

 

#####

           

“You don’t have to do this. I….I don’t _want_ you to do this.”

            “But it’s the right thing to do…isn’t it?”

            Maes Elric tugged anxiously at his ponytail. “I don’t _know_ ,” he groaned. “I just don’t want any…I want to keep you safe, Selim.”

            Calm dark eyes met his own. There was absolutely no fear in them, and that made Maes feel all the worse. Did Selim really comprehend what was going to happen to him when he testified before a closed Parliament session tomorrow about the Promised Day?

            Or was he calm because he completely understood—and was ready to accept whatever might befall him?

            How could _anybody_ fail to feel compassion for this young man who was dragged into the Father’s darkness while still sheltered in his mother’s womb—who was never given a chance to say _no_ or _stop_ or even curse the unholy creature that injected the red stone into the amniotic fluids so that a normal human fetus would mutate into a homunculus?

 

            The first time Maes heard the true story about Selim from his father the young man had vomited over and over and had needed more than a little alcohol to get to sleep that night. Collins, when the secret was shared to him, cursed in true anger and resolved to help the damaged older man as much as he could.

            And then there were the glass negatives Maes and his sister had found in the tumbledown old greenhouse, negatives that were etched with the face and form of the being known as Selim Bradley, taken decades when Roy Mustang’s father was still a child. Maes never intended for Selim to see those plates, but he’d found them by accident while helping Maes and Collins clean up the workshop. As weeks passed and his memory improved, Selim was even able to remember when they had been taken—and by whom.

            “Nobody hit me,” Selim had told them over hot chocolate one night. “They were kind. They said I was strong and I was the best.” Mrs. Bradley had given a soft sob at those words and reached for her son’s hand. “Am I a person or a thing, Maes?”

            At those plaintative words, Maes’ own eyes became damp. “All _I_ know is that you’re our friend,” he had answered, his voice breaking with pity. “You’re our friend and I‘ll do anything I can to help you, now and always.”

 

            But tomorrow Selim would tell his story before the Prime Minister, the members of the Amestrian Parliament, senior military officers and President Mustang. This hearing would be closed to the press and the public. Mustang had told the people more than Grumman ever had about the Promised Day, but he had stopped short of telling about the Sins and how they had been created. “Selim, this may seem hard to understand—sometimes I have trouble with it myself. A _person_ can think about truth when they hear it and ask questions and find answers. But _people_ as a group don’t often do this. They get scared and stop thinking and sometimes they are so afraid they do bad things without even meaning to hurt anybody. Just like one horse can be led safely away if the barn catches fire, but a herd of horses will panic and stampede and run over anybody who tries to get them safely away.” His strong, gloved hand closed over Selim’s shoulder. “What was done to you frightens even _me_ , Selim. Nobody wants to think that an innocent child was _made_ into a Homunculus who was taught to hurt people. It’s like thinking about something that is just..so… _big_ …that they can’t think about it without being hurt and scared. That’s why it’s best that only a few people know what happened to you, so they have time to hear your story and know you for the good person you are.”

            “Then seeing me scares people?”

            “No, son,” Roy told the younger man who was, in truth, older than Roy’s own father. “What scares them is that someday somebody might try it again and hurt _their_ children.”

 

            Maes' heart ached at the thought of what might befall his damaged friend once the story was told. That’s why he’d ridden his motorcycle out to the Bradley house, David Collins at his side. Selim and his mother were genuinely surprised when Maes offered to get them out of the city and send them through the underground tunnels out of the country. “I’ve got lots of friends up north. My dad’s friend, Uncle Pyotir, owns a _dacha_ in a little town out in the country. Pyotir says both of you can stay there as long as you want. You could—I don’t know—dig in the garden, and fish in the river. Folks are nice up there, tho’ the winter gets kinda hard. But you could start again, both of you. What do you say?”

            “Maes, you’ll get in trouble with your father and President Mustang for even talking like this.”

            “ _I don’t care!”_

            Finally, Selim shook his head. “No more trouble. Not for anybody. I will go and talk to them. I will tell them what I know. What I remember.” His face brightened. “Will that keep people from being hurt like they hurt me, with the red stone?”

            Maes buried his face in his hands, helpless to change what he feared was to come. “I wish I knew, Selim. I wish I knew……”

 

#####

            “Miss Turlough—“

            Gladys beamed and her nipples perked up at the sight of Ling’s son. “Hi, Sheng-sheng! Lookit my neck!” Ice pink nails trailed over the ivory flesh of her throat. “Not even a mark! You‘re just the best! And Kingy’s all handsome again. Kingy, Sheng-sheng’s so smart and good and talented and all. Why’dn’cha make _him_ the Crown Prince?”

            Ling regarded her with the fondness that he might have shown a small, cherished kitten. “Because he doesn’t want it—or so he keeps telling me over and over. He’s the best and the brightest of my offspring, and all he wants to do is be an alchemist and a doctor. A _doctor_! Not even a Royal Physician!” Glancing up at his tall son, Ling enquired if it was time to dress for his appearance at Parliament regarding the events of The Promised Day.

            “Indeed, Father. Miss Turlough, will you be accompanying us? It would be my honor to escort you.”

            Gladys gave him a saucy wink. “And leave Miss Nina alone?” She giggled as the young man offered a feeble protest. “No, honey. Mistah Alphonse will invited me to sit with him…but I’ll holler if I need you, ‘kay?”

           

            As they made their way to the Presidential Guest Suite’s dressing chambers, Sheng Yao confronted his father. “You won’t let Ran Fan kill her.”

            Ling didn’t need to ask who _her_ was. “Shouldn’t I?” He frowned. “She broke my nose. You know the laws of our country. To lay hands on the Celestial Emperor other than to save his life is punishable by death. The only reason her head isn’t stuck on the end of Ran Fan’s sword is because that Amestrian constable stopped her.”

            “Father,” Sheng sighed, “we are not barbarians. And I have been in Miss Winchell’s company frequently enough to suspect….”

            Ling glanced at his son. “Go on.”

            Hoping the gods and ancestors would pardon him for lying to the Celestial One, Sheng Yao, took a deep breath and adjusted his spectacles. “Would you like my opinion as a physician, Father?”

            The Celestial One shrugged. “Sure.”

            “She’s—to put it tactfully—a few tiles short of a mahjong set.”

            “Insane?”

            “Delusional….paranoid, certainly. My studies in human psychology have been very elementary but it would seem to me that the most merciful course of action would be to grant her an Imperial pardon _on condition of evaluation, treatment….and a very long supervised rest_.”

            “She broke my nose, son.”

            “And I fixed it. Do this for me, Father,” the young prince asked earnestly. “Evaluation, rest…and then probation under a suitable officer here in Amestris.” He smiled. “It would be good for your image. It might even expunge the possible implications that my Celestial Father was planning on—what was it Maes called it? ‘Getting boiled as an owl’—in a public saloon and possibly disgracing himself on the dance floor with a bunch of barely-legal chorus girls and acquiring another half dozen wives who will cost him more than Miss Turlough.”

            Ling fingered the bridge of his nose and considered. “I don’t like this…but all right. Get it done quickly and clean up this mess for me before I leave for my empire….and I’ll let you off the hook and you can stay in Amestris without my summoning you back against your will. Agreed?”

 

#####

            “Good morning, Maude! We’ve brought you something for breakfast from Il Gattina. Elycia baked it especially for you.”

            On the other side of the glass, Maude Kelley Winchell looked ready to spit at the President and his husband. “I don’t want anything from you.”

            “No?” Roy was positively chirping with good will—which would have made anyone who knew him well instantly suspicious. “You don’t want it? Looks delicious.” He flipped the bakery box open. “It’s a cake.” He leaned in close to the speaker. “ _With a file in it._ ”

            The frazzled blonde sat up straight. _“A file?”_

Roy nodded. “A _nail file_. I’m afraid your manicurist doesn’t make house calls to the prison, Maude. She’s cancelled your appointments indefinitely. After all,” he waved cheerily to the walls around her, “if she comes out here to do your nails, she’ll have to do everybody else’s. Inmates are not known to be generous tippers—and she says the prison laundry is hell for chipping polish. She’d be down here doing touch ups every day. Not very profitable.”

            “And you’ll want to keep those claws nice and sharp,” Ed added with a spiteful grin. “I hear the ladies in there are pretty fierce. Not that you’ll be in there long, I’d imagine. I suspect you’ll be heading to Xing.”

            “I’ll wave that 30-day waiting period for your visa,” Roy offered generously. “I’ll even discount the cost of expediting it for you.”

            “Yeah. _Half off.”_ Ed made a sharp slashing gesture across his throat.

            Winchell made a small, whimpering sound, eyes wide with panic. Roy almost felt sorry for her.

            Almost.

            “We’ll take our leave of you, Maude.” Roy rose and gathered up his greatcoat. “Have a safe trip.”

            Ed grinned and waved as the author began to sob, the last of her mascara dribbling down her pale cheeks.

 

            They closed the doors behind them. “I think she’ll be amenable to anything you offer,” Roy told Sheng Yao. The Prince had been sitting quietly in the waiting area with his Imperial seal bearers and Ling’s personal secretary.

            “You figured out what to do with her?” Ed asked.

            The Prince bowed his head, smiling a little. “Indeed. And I believe it might do her much good, if she is open to change.”

            Ed slapped the younger man’s shoulder with a cynical grin. “Son, the only thing on earth that actually _wants_ to be changed is a baby in a shitty diaper. And don’t you forget it!”

           

#####

 

            _“Selim.”_

Nina drew in her breath. She couldn’t believe the older man was actually going to tell his story before the Parliament. Glancing at her stepfather, she was just about to protest when her brother, as if reading her thoughts, squeezed her hand. “He wants to do this, Nitwit. Nobody’s going to punish him. Hell, who would? All he was doing was playing out the part they made him for.”

            She glared at her brother. “Are you that naïve, Tinker? This is murder we’re talking about!” she hissed.

            “I tried to stop him, and Pops said he didn’t have to make a statement. This was his choice.”

            “Hey, pipe down,” Ed whispered sharply. “They’re about to swear him in…..”

#####

 

            _“My name is Selim Bradley and this is my testimony._

_“I know that people are scared to have me talk. They are scared that people will be mad and then they will hurt me. But my mother says I have nothing to fear and that I should always tell the truth—so I will._

_“You heard President Mustang this morning. He talked about the Old Man—the one they called The Father. You heard him tell about how the man who raised me, King Bradley, was taken in when he was little and things were done to him by The Father. How they tried to put the red stone into a bunch of people with needles. Mostly they died. King Bradley lived and he was more than a man. It did things to him. Bad things. I don’t think he knew right from wrong. They made him a monster so he could tell the people what to do. Tell the army what to do. And he smiled a lot. He looked like he was good but he wasn’t—except to me and my mother. Before he died, he even told soldiers to kill my mother. That made him a very, very bad man—but he had things done to him and so maybe he didn’t know how to be good._

_“I am a monster too._

_“The Father said they put the red stone into a lady’s tummy when she had me inside her, before I was born. It did things to me I don’t remember. But I know she is dead and that makes me very sad._

_“I got to be as big as a child but no bigger. I had a big person’s brain. I wasn’t dumb like I am now. That happened later. The Father thing showed me how to hurt people. How to make them scared._

_“He taught me how to make them die..and I did. I made lots and lots of people die. I feel really, really sad about that. I don’t know how I could be so bad and hurt people, but I did it._

_“Then on that day when the sun was going to go all black, there was a fight. The Father Thing was so strong, but he said he needed to be even stronger so he could be a god. He needed to take power from five alchemists—the five strongest ever. Mr. Edward. Mr. Alphonse. President Mustang—only he wasn’t President then. Miss Curtis---and Mr. Elric, the father of Mr. Edward and Mr. Alphonse._

_“He caught them all and President Mustang got hurt. His eyes—he couldn’t see. Miss Curtis helped him. I…I remember being very angry because they wouldn’t help the Father thing become a god and so I fought Edward Elric. I wanted to make him die._

_“He beat me. He was so strong and good and he did not want me to hurt anybody anymore. He could have made me die but he didn’t want to. He knew…I don’t know how he knew….that I got made into a monster before I was born and didn’t know how to be good. He thought I could be good._

_“When the fight was over…I felt…all small. Like I didn’t know anything—but I wanted my mother._

_“He gave me to her—and she has been good to me. Maybe I wasn’t in her belly but I belong to her. I love her very much._

_“And he and Maes and Nina and Davy and President Mustang—all of them are helping me learn. I am getting smarter now. And I know right from wrong._

_“I wanted to tell the truth. I don’t want you to be scared of me. I know I did wrong things but President Mustang and my friends and old President Grumman have all helped me to learn to do right._

_“I want to keep doing right if you will not kill me. But if you have to kill me I still want to do right._

_“Thank you for letting me tell the truth.”_

#####

 

            “Well, old friend?”

            Prime Minister Ingro studied her reflection in her cup of tea, steam wreathing her dark hands as she silently considered all she’d learned on this day of dreadful revelations.

            An army of animated flesh that screamed and staggered and consumed everything in its path. An inhuman madman conspiring with the army and a team of doctors and scientists to find the true key to immortality through the corruption of alchemy. Lives spent like coins, falling through the fingers of the mighty. Every life in the country she loved was little more than a resource to be burned as fuel in the fires of one person’s—one _creature’s—_ ambition.

            After a lengthy silence, she lifted her dark eyes to meet Mustang’s. “The Father,” she said at last. “What was it? Was it human?”

            Roy slowly shook his head. “Once, maybe. I don’t know. What I _do_ know is that this wasn’t the first time in human history that an innocent kid was used for experiments in search of immortality. You know the tales of the Great Sage of the East? Those weren’t legends. There really _was_ a Great Sage…and he knew what this thing was and gave his life trying to stop it.”

            The Prime Minister looked sober. “And you know this….how?”

            “Because I heard from his own lips that the immortality that was forced upon him was an unimaginable curse, when all he wanted to do, in the end, was to grow old contentedly and be buried beside the woman he loved. Everything he was—all of his knowledge—was given to put an end to the Father creature, at the cost of his marriage and the trust of his sons.”

            The Prime Minister took a long sip of tea. She stirred it idly with her finger. “Those…sons. Do they have any desire for immortality?”

            A slightly ironic smile played around his lips. “As the eldest would say, ‘ _hell, no’.”_

“What about you, Roy? And Izumi Curtis?”

            _She knows…or has guessed._ “I don’t want to outlive my good looks. And she doesn’t want to live without her husband.”

            _“And if you do?”_

_Now, we come to the truth, just as Priya said we would._ “It’s a big world out there, Cee. Easy to get lost out there. Very easy, I hear. Could take a lifetime to explore it.”

            “Several lifetimes, Roy?”

            “Could be.” Mustang met her inquisitive glance without evasion. “I sure as hell hope not.”

            In the distance, they heard the summoning bell. “Looks like recess is over.” The Prime Minister rose slowly to her feet. “Just so we understand one another. Now, “she adjusted her glasses, “it looks like the Emperor is going to have the last word today. Let’s go, Roy….”

 

….TO BE CONTINUED….


	45. "THE JEWEL IN HIS CROWN"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Amestrian Parliament concludes its hearing about the events of The Promised Day, there is one last man to be heard from--the man who walked away with the last Philosopher's Stone, Celestial Emperor Ling Yao....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 45: THE JEWEL IN HIS CROWN

By The Binary Alchemist, 2015

 

               

                _“Am I going to die?”_

                The earnestness of that simple question cut as deeply into Edward’s kindly heart as a slash from Lust’s claws. There was no trace of _Pride_ in this young man, only the odd round scar on his brow where that monster had fed power into him—and probably had feasted on him as well. It was the sickest goddamn thing Ed could imagine and the sooner Selim Bradley could put this horror behind him, the better.

                “I didn’t kill you then, and I’m not gonna let anybody kill you now. You’re not a monster, and now you’re nobody’s puppet. And if it means I have to get you into hiding somewhere out of the country, then by hell I’ll do it. And,” he added quickly, “your mother too. But I don’t think it’s gonna come to that.” He clapped his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Between the President and the Prime Minister and Parliament, we’ll find a way. I fought too damn hard to save you from that thing that took you over. I’ll be double goddamned if I let you be lost now.”

#####

                “I’m still not sure…”

                His Celestial Excellency Emperor Ling Yao offered his reflection a critical eye. “Western clothing is so… _restrictive_. These trousers. Too tight in the crotch.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sheng Yao and frowned. “Could have a negative effect on my ability to father sons.”

                “Father…at this point I have so many siblings that I have to send out New Year’s greetings cards addressed as ‘To Whom It May Concern.’ I don’t know even half of them now. You’ve sired nearly as many offspring as my august grandfather. At any rate, wearing Western attire in the courtroom will make you less alien…more approachable. Some Westerners, I have observed, are uncomfortable in the presence of the unfamiliar. This is not a moment to intimidate them.”

                “I’m the Celestial Emperor, damn it. I’m _supposed_ to intimidate my subjects!”

                Prince Sheng adjusted his rimless spectacles and met his father’s petulance with impatience. “The only subjects in the chambers today will be your own retinue, Ran Fan and myself—and you ceased to intimidate me the day you married a film star and were photographed drinking champagne from her shoe.”

                Ling’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide in astonishment. _“What did you say?_ I could have you beheaded for insolence,” he grumbled, smiling ruefully and playfully ruffling his son’s dark hair. “That’s what you get for hanging around with Western women.” Ling adjusted his tie and peered back into the mirror. “Speaking of which, I’m assuming you’ll be announcing your intentions soon.”

                “You assume incorrectly. I have no intentions to announce.”

                Ling snorted in disgust. “You’re a prince, damn it! You don’t ask. You command.”

                The alchemist nodded. “And she is _lady_ , whom I honor and respect. There will be no ‘intentions’ announced unless it is absolutely clear that the lady has ‘intentions’ herself. And that may never come to pass.”

                “You mean you’d be fool enough to let her go?”

                “If it meant keeping her friendship? Yes.”

                “If she knew the full scope of your inheritance, she’d be interested,” Ling gave his son a knowing look.               

Sheng Yao sighed, and touched the protective amulet his father had given him, bidding the prince to wear it at all times since leaving his native land. “I suppose we’ll see the truth of it in time then, Father.”

 

               

               

#####

                “Where’s Kingy? I don’t see him!” Fashionably attired in a suit of cream silk and a pale pink blouse, Gladys Turlough strolled into the Chambers of Parliament on Al’s arm, blue eyes wide and taking in everything.

                “Probably planning some grand friggin’ entrance on the back of an elephant.” Ed frowned. He considered Ling a friend but found royal protocol pretentious and useless. “He farts when he eats beans, same as any guy. And he’s got people on the payroll that actually wash his dick for him? Incredible!”

                _“Ed.”_ A sharp glance from Mustang. “He has to play the same games as any other heads of state. Lay off.”

                “Huh!” Settling into his seat, Ed folded his arms and looked annoyed. “I don’t see anybody around Rose Hill washing _your_ dick.”

                “No. But I _do_ have someone who kisses it goodnight.”

                Ed snorted. “I’m not on the payroll. If you’re gonna play that game, I should get at least as much as the Imperial Dick Washer—“

                “Can it, Dad!” A sharp elbow caught Ed in the ribcage as Maes caught sight of Ran Fan and Hawkeye flanking a tall, slim figure in a sharply tailored Western suit being escorted to a seat in front of the assembly. “Here we go….”

#####

 

                An aide approached Major General Armstrong and passed her a note. She read it. She nodded and reached for her coffee. _“Get me Falman.”_

He had been called to serve as Roy’s attaché to Briggs ever since the Promised Day and it had suited Vato Falman well indeed. It hadn’t been easy. Negotiating with the Ice Queen was often like gently grasping the reins of a madly charging horse and trying to stop it by softly whispering ‘whoa, Nelly!’ when what one wanted to do was to yank with all one’s strength at the bridle and scream ‘STOP, GODDAMN IT!’ She was brilliant. She was ruthless, and sometimes it seemed that she was half a heartbeat away from seceding from Amestris and making her own rebel nation in her frozen mountains. But, at the heart of it, she was a woman of honor and courage. For all her seeming disdain for the President and her threats of saber rattling, Falman knew she could be trusted as fully as he trusted Roy Mustang.

                Entering her quarters, he snapped to a sharp salute. “Ma’am!”

                Silently, she passed him the message. Falman scanned the words and passed it back to her. “This is the last hand, Falman,” she told him sternly. The cards have been dealt. They are going to find out about the last Philosopher’s Stone. Mustang is going to have to answer for how he let it slip through his fingers and into the hands of the Emperor. This is when we see if this gambit has paid off—to see if that lazy, lascivious son of a bitch can be the better man in the end. You’d better be right about this, Falman. Otherwise I’ll have wasted a small fortune on this scheme and if I’ve miscalculated because of your misplaced loyalty to that greenhorn upstart _, I’m going to take it out of your ass_. “

#####

                _“No gongs. No fanfare. No kissing the carpet at your feet. Quiet. Dignified and factual.”_ Ling signed inwardly. Sheng Yao could be so bloody _serious_ sometimes. The Emperor had no idea how the kid had turned out to be such a killjoy. The nerve of that little jerk telling _him_ what to do! But a promise was a promise and for all his faults Ling always managed to keep his word, even if it annoyed the hell out of him to do it.

                He allowed himself one standard bearer and wore only the simplest of crowns—the tiny box-like affair in antique gold bound in red brocade, held in place by a single large golden pin. Looked smart with his dark silk suit and kept his topknot neatly tucked away. His nails were buffed, his western leather shoes polished to a high sheen. Not even a speck of dandruff dared to touch his imperial shoulders.

                Unlike Roy Mustang, he did not announce his title at the beginning of his testimony. If there was anybody in the Parliament chambers who _didn’t_ know who the hell he was, then their opinions were of no real consequence….

#####

                “Are you all right?” Nina glanced over at the prince, who seemed paler than usual. There was a grim set to his face and his eyes never swerved from his father’s face.

                “These are hard words for your people to hear. The Fuhrer of Amestris, attacking the future Emperor with two swords—“

                “And omitting _specific details_ about his true identity—“

                “—as well as my father’s.”

                She leaned in closer. “And whose idea was that?”

                For an instant, he turned his eyes to hers. “In the end…would it have accomplished any real purpose to identify his affiliation with The Ultimate Shield?”

                “You asked him to lie?”

                As if asking for silent strength from the gods of his ancestors, Sheng touched his amulet again. “I advised him to _evade,_ even as President Mustang managed to evade sharing the affiliation between King Bradley and The Ultimate Eye—and as he advised Bradley’s son not to name the name of the Prideful One. Would there be any real good come of revealing these truths, weighed against the harm it would cause?”

                To his surprise, she clasped his hand tightly. “No,” she sighed. “You’re right. And nobody would believe it.”

#####

                There was one point, however, that the Emperor could not avoid or talk around: The Philosopher’s Stone. And while Roy had made it clear to all the horrors of its making, he couldn’t quite dispel the belief that it had been, at least to some degree, _effective._

                He was questioned directly—and the Prime Minister was not smiling.

                “They have a limited lifespan? These stones are not self sustaining?”

                “No. They wear out or are depleted. I believe this is based on the number of people who were resourced to make them.”

                _“Resourced?”_

“ _Sacrificed._ Murdered, if you wish to be technical.” He nodded, and a retainer offered him a sip of tea from a delicate porcelain cup. “People were murdered to create a …well, to use a modern term, a battery. An amplifier for alchemic power. But it has a very short lifespan of usefulness, and the cost in human lives is...well….not equal to what is produced in the end. It’s a waste and a cruelty, chasing a dream that could be achieved just as well by hard work.”

                “But,” the Prime Minister pressed, “weren’t the stones used for healing? I understand that the stone Dr. Marcoh obtained was used to heal the President’s eye injuries and to help Jean Havoc recover from his spinal injuries.”

                Rising, Roy nodded. “That is true, Ma’am. And while I am deeply grateful for the return of my vision, I am in no way forgetful of the cost of the cure. If there had been a way to return those souls to their bodies, I would have refused in a heartbeat. But,” his voice became emphatic, “life only flows in one direction. The souls had no bodies to return to—and the testimony about the mannequin army is more than enough proof that creating artificial bodies to house the souls trapped in the stone would have been an even greater disaster. At that time…the decision was made that the two surviving stones be used up or disposed of. Dr. Marcoh used the remaining power of his stone to heal the sick. As for the other stone…” Roy turned and nodded towards the Emperor. “It left the country in the possession of the Emperor.”

                No one stirred in the chamber.

After a stunned silence, the Prime Minister cleared her throat and choosing her next words with great precision, as if she truly did not want to hear the answer to the question she offered to the Celestial Emperor of Xing:

_“And where is the last stone now?”_

Ling brightened, and for a brief instant Edward could have sworn he saw an echo of ‘GreedLing’ in his old friend’s expression.

“It’s in the safest place I could think of. In the one place I knew for absolute fact it would never be abused.

“You want the last Philosopher’s Stone?” Smiling broadly now, Ling rose and he pointed directly at Sheng Yao. _“He’s got it.”_

 

Nina’s blood turned to ice. She was about to be sick. Her head jerked to the right, just in time to see her father’s eyes go wild with fury, Mae’s intercepting his father before Ed could get his hands on the young prince.

Before Ed could open his mouth, Roy’s hand gripped his shoulder like iron. _“Not now.”_

_“You little BASTARD!! What did you do to me??“_

_“SHUT…UP.”_ Roy’s eyes were cold and furious. “Not the time. _Not_ the place. _Later.”_

 

With quiet dignity, Prince Sheng Yao rose and bowed to the assembly. Moving swiftly through the crowd, he approached the Prime Minister. Reaching behind his head, he unfastened the clasp of the chain around his neck and held up his amulet. “This is a _ghau_. Every Xingese wears one, most often concealed and worn over the heart. They are prepared at birth and invested when a child is ten years of age. Traditionally, they contain a bit of the umbilicus, small scriptures—sutras from the writings of the Great Sages, along with some small memento from one’s parents, as a sign that binds parent and child together. A lock of hair, perhaps—a note of blessing.

“Mine, in particular, carries a memento from my Celestial sire—what he refers to as my ‘inheritance’. He had chosen me to succeed him when he goes to the gods. I respectfully declined, choosing to become a doctor and alchemist instead. But when he invested me with my _ghau_ , he gave me his ‘crown jewel’ to keep in spite of my refusal.” He offered the talisman to the Prime Minister. “Would you like to see what so many millions have died for?”

It was smaller than Ed remembered, and darker in color. More opaque than translucent, it looked as if much of its power had been spent. He could barely contain his anger and Roy had not released his fierce grip on Ed’s shoulder. _“You used it.”_

“In a time of plague. The people of Nihon were dying—and I am of their blood. It was a thing I could stop—and in stopping it I could prevent a terrible death not only in Xing but in Koriyo and Seim as well. From there it would have spread to Tonkin and Anam. Xing and the Five Jewels would have been decimated—and in time, the infection would have spread across the desert to Ishbal and Amestris.”

“A _pandemic?”_ the Prime Minister wanted to know.

“Very likely.”

“My son was only twelve but he was studying with Master Mai Chang and Master Alphonse. When the first cases of the plague began to cross our northern border, he heard them discussing it with my ministers. When the death toll began to rise, my son became very worried about his kindred on his mother’s side. Unfortunately, they did not survive.”

“I told my masters that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to save more from dying,” the prince continued. “ They _laughed_. They said I was merely a child and did not take me seriously. And—“

“Nobody was listening to him. Nobody but me and Master Chang.” Alphonse interrupted as he rose to his feet. “And I told Sheng what his father was keeping—and why. And what it could do if used with conscience.” He glanced apologetically at his brother and Mustang. “ _Be thou for the people._ Isn’t that what we were taught as alchemists, Ed? And if your soul was trapped inside that thing, wouldn’t you want to give your life for something—anything—that might save others?”

The Prime Minister was stunned. _“And you told the Emperor to give the Philosopher’s Stone to a twelve year old boy?”_

“Yes, I did. Because,” Alphonse’ voice began to crack, “I remember another twelve year old boy who wouldn’t stop at anything to help his brother. Who was willing to give everything he had—everything he was—to save someone else. _I was that person._ I have a debut of gratitude I can never pay…but here was a chance to prevent a pandemic…and here was a twelve year old boy with the same heart and determination as my brother Edward.

“I asked Ling to give Sheng the stone. What else could I do?”

Hot tears coursed down Nina’s cheeks. Edward buried his face in his hands with a groan. Roy lifted his hand for attention. “The pandemic was stopped?”

“It was, Roy.” Ling looked proudly at his son. “My boy was given a choice. Use the stone to further himself—to become the most powerful Emperor of all time—or to become a healer and possibly risk his own life trying to stop the pandemic.”

 _“He was just a kid!”_ someone shouted from the buzzing crowd inside the chamber.

“So was Edward Elric—and Roy made him a State Alchemist. He was ‘just a kid’ and he helped bring down a monster that would have destroyed all of Amestris.”

Ling nodded. “If the whole business with the Promised Day and the Philosopher’s Stone has taught us anything, Prime Minister, it’s that we should never underestimate our children—or should I say, we shouldn’t sell them short….Whoops! Sorry Ed!”

“ _Fuck you!”_

Five minutes was not enough of a recess to calm down the excitement that Ling’s testimony had generated. Even Roy could not prevent Ed from rushing at the prince, grabbing him by the front of his tunic. “What the hell did you do to me,” he snarled. Ran Fan took two warning steps closer, only to be restrained by an amused Emperor. “You used that damn stone on me to wake up my alchemy, didn’t you? _Didn’t you?!?”_

“No.” Sheng’s tone was resolute. “The proximity of it may have affected you, but it could not give you what you did not already possess. It was the warmth of the sun on a dreaming seed—but the sun falls on us all. Only the seed can reach down in the dark with its roots and take hold in the earth. Your power was sleeping, Edward-sama. Your eyes are open now and it is a brand new day. It is time _you get off your stubborn ass_ and get going. The world needs you… _and it is wider than you ever imagined.”_

And with that, the prince bowed and left Edward standing there, fists balled up, panting with unspent fury and confusion.

#####

“…and in the end…a decision must be made to determine what is to be done with the Stone. I am aware,” the Prime Minister cautioned, “that it is now in the hands of the Emperor—or rather, Prince Sheng Yao. “

“And I will gladly pass it back into the hands of President Mustang,” Sheng asserted. “I have no desire to use it again. It is, in fact, a burden to my heart to bear this thing, knowing how it was made. Since it came from Amestris,” he concluded, “let it return to Amestris. Let older and wiser alchemists decide what is to be done with it.”

The expression on Roy Mustang’s face was unreadable as the young prince placed the _ghau_ amulet into his hands, the terrible red gem sealed up inside it once more. _And so once again it is in my hands. And I wouldn’t use it if you put a gun to my head. I’d like to think I’m strong enough not to yield to temptation…but who knows? I’m not as clever as I’ve thought. And who would trust me if they knew I had a potential weapon that could harm as much as it can heal? It’s nearly spent anyway…_

Ed touched his arm. “It’s nearly done anyway. What are you gonna do? Destroy it?”

Alphonse shook his head. “There’s still good that can be done with it. You know that. Think of Doctor Marcoh and the lives he saved.”

“Yeah…but here’s the thing. It can only do so much—and who’s to say who gets healed and who doesn’t? That’s gonna cause more conflict.”

Roy stared at the amulet in his hand. “I know whose lives were made into this stone.” His voice was heavy, as if the weight of the thousands of lives who died to make each stone were burdening his heart.”These were Ishballan prisoners. I…I don’t know for sure, but it may be that the soul of Grand Cleric Logue Lowe could be in here.” He gritted his teeth. _Damn it…no matter what I decide, history is going to damn me for making the wrong choice. Fuck it._

#####

_“Jaya Lowe?”_

The young Ishballan cleric rose from where he was sitting beside David Collins. “Mr. President?”

                “Take this stone. Take these souls back to your people. Work with Dr. Marcoh and see that he uses whatever’s left in here to heal the sick for however long it lasts. And when it turns black and crumbles, scatter the dust on the winds and say a prayer that humanity will never show this kind of savagery again.”

 

…TO BE CONTINUED…..

 


	46. "IDIOTS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exciting new era in broadcasting begins--the Mustang/Samuelson battle for the presidency will be the first to be broadcast on the fledgling new media known as 'television'. Maes Elric is right on the vanguard of the new service...but is experiencing some deeply embarassing 'technical difficulties'. Meanwhile, Kelley Winchell joins the Mile High club with Alphonse...and some eight-legged guests...

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 46: “IDIOTS”

By the Binary Alchemist, 2015

 

               

 

                “Well, that’s a waste of a perfectly beautiful erection.”

                A hot hand trailed lazily down the length of Ed’s spine as he sat on the edge of the bed, fumbling for his glasses. “You’re _absolutely_ sure you can’t stay and play… _hmmmmmm_?”

                _Damn that Mustang_. Ed gritted his teeth and tugged on his boxers, his own cock twitching in response to the rough purr in his husband’s voice. “I gave my word to Ling, didn’t I? Somebody’s got to get Maude to North City and make damn sure she gets to the San and gets checked in. Hell of a way to wreck half of my day, but it can’t be helped.”

                The hand was replaced by a tongue, which was so unfair it was downright ungentlemanly. “We could .. _come_ … together,” Roy whispered. “Maybe show Maude a little… _in-flight entertainment_.”

                “Huh!” Ed made a face like a cat licking shit out of its own fur. “Even for you, that’s disgusting! Besides, you’ve got that radio interview this morning with Garrison Moyers, right?”

                “Damn. Well, I guess it will keep until you get home. Want to go for a ride tonight?”

                “Depends on who’s getting ridden….”

#####

“Kelly Winchell said she wouldn’t set foot on a plane with Edward Elric in it,” Jean Havoc informed the ground crew. “And Alphonse was…entertaining some guests when we called. “ _Yeah._ Havoc thought with a grin. _Two or three guests, and they were rolling around the kitchen floor with Al and drizzling pancake syrup all over each other and licking it off. Lucky bastard. “_ Soon as Alphonse gets her out here, we’ll take off.” Havoc crushed out his filter-tip on the tarmac and adjusted his sunglasses.

“Bright and early” suited Havoc fine as a rule, but it was a little brighter this morning than it needed to be. He was pretty worn out, truth be told. He’s spent some time with the Elric family the night before while Riza was on duty, and he’d stayed up too late, eaten too much good food and laughed too hard at Maes’ newest acquisition: a type of ‘picture radio’ transmission device called a television camera. Television had been invented in the mid-20’s, but only in recent years had anybody taken any real interest in it. Maes had finally gotten his hands on some Drachman equipment a few days ago and Havoc and the family had sat up late into the night watching the young genius going amusingly half-mad trying to get the camera and receiver set up. “There’s a Marconi tower station at Radio Central,” Maes had chattered excitedly. “They got in an experimental transmitter a month ago. There’s about hundred other receivers in Central—and Dr. Tesla and I went to talk to them to see if maybe we can broadcast the election returns. This could be a whole new wave of reporting, Dad!”

The crew had spent the evening eating pizza, drinking beer and unloading and sorting out the colossal mess of wires, tubes and cabinets, the task becoming more complicated as they finished off the first couple of mugs. Havoc had headed home around three in the morning and was now blinking painfully into the sunrise and wishing he was curled up in bed with his lovely wife and the assorted half dozen puppies that always managed to sneak in and share their sleeping arrangements.

His half-drowsy reverie came to an abrupt ending with the sound of Maes’ motorcycle and side car screeching up the tarmac. “What the _hell_ \--?”

It was a good thing that both Alphonse and Sheng Yao were wearing helmets, otherwise Winchell would have brained them both with the wild arcs of her swinging handbag. “ _That’s enough, Maude”_ Alphonse was barely smiling now. “Behave yourself. You’re not a child. I’m sure you don’t want to travel to the San in restraints, do you?”

Havoc cringed inwardly. _So this was how it’s going to be, eh? Crazy broad decks the goddamn Emperor of Xing, manages to get out of jail because Sheng’s a fast talker with a soft heart, and she still can’t quit acting out like a damn five year old._

Laying his helmet aside, Sheng dismounted and for the first time, Havoc noted, the young prince was wearing the starched white doctor’s coat. The badge pinned over the pocket read “Hohenheim Institute School Of Medicine, S. Yao, PA”. _So the kid’s made Physician’s Assistant, huh? Good for him. And if he decides to work on a psych ward, ol’ Maude will be a good learning experience._

Havoc offered his hand to the prince. “So what’s all the ruckus about?”

“A minor misunderstanding. I had informed Miss Winchell that she only needed a small bag of essential items. Everything else will be provided for her. She was under the mistaken impression that she needed a half dozen bags, including a special case for her makeup and wigs.”

“No fooling?”

The young Xingese was smiling gently, ignoring Winchell’s angry curses and threats. “When Alphonse-sama politely declined to load the bags into the car, she threw herself on the pavement and began to scream and kick her heels. Since there is no room for extra bags in a side car, Alphonse-sama decided that this would be the best way to transport her to the flight.”

“Wow,” Havoc whistled. “Damn! How did you get her in the side car?”

A sly look from under silky black eyebrows. “It wasn’t pretty, Havoc-sama.”

“I can _imagine.”_ There was an ear-bending screech, and Alphonse—in a grumpy mood from having his romp interrupted-- swung the older woman up on one brawny shoulder and carried her bodily up the cargo ramp at the rear of the aircraft.

#####

“ _Going live in three…two…one….”_

“Welcome back to _The Morning View_. I’m Garrison Moyers, and with us again this morning is President Roy Mustang. This morning we’re coming to you live from—and I’m absolutely serious here—the kitchen at Rose Hill, which is the home to President Mustang and his family. Mr. President, this is quite a change from sitting in the formal reception area of your office. I have to say I like it. Good to know that your kitchen table is no less cluttered than any other in Amestris, although the clutter is probably unique to your household.”

“Alchemy books, a horse bridle I need repaired—oh, and that cathode-ray vacuum tube that went missing last night. My son has become fascinated by television, Garrison, and we were up half the night putting together his camera and receiver set. You wouldn’t _believe_ the mess in the family room this morning. Poor kid was so tired I found him asleep on the floor with his head stuck in the receiver cabinet.”

“Television? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.”

“And every penny of it came out of his own pocket. He and Drs. Sarnoff and Tesla from Stoltovgrad University are experimenting this summer with the first ever educational broadcasts from the Hohenheim. However…it’s all pretty experimental. I seriously doubt that Radio Capital is in any danger of competition from an eight inch screen.”

“I understand Dr. Sarnoff and his crew are going to have their camera crew down at Election Central to provide live television coverage of the election in a few days.”

“That’s what I hear. Supposedly there will be a crew at the Samuelson headquarters, and one at the voting precinct in downtown Central, along with the rest of the press.”

“And will they be covering your side of the campaign?”

“If they like. I’m all for freedom of the press and equal access to coverage. Strange to think that Donal Samuelson and I will--literally—be making campaign appearances in a few hundred homes and public locations across Amestris at the same time. Even my Aunt Chris has a set in her bar—but I think her patrons would be more interested in seeing the boxing matches in the arena than my good looks, don’t you think?”

#####

 

“I’m _hungry.”_

Sheng nodded. “Alphonse-sama, I don’t imagine you had time for breakfast, did you?”

“Well….I wasn’t expecting to take a trip this morning to North City, so—“

“—so I took the liberty to ask Ramsay-sama to prepare some boxed lunches—in that bag there, Havoc-sama. Oh, and the pink box is for Miss Winchell.” The young intern smiled warmly at the glowering woman who was perched miserably on a scarred leather bench seat in the cargo hold where they were huddled among the rest of the crates and bundles. After all, the first plane out had been a cargo carrier full of live chickens, produce from the South and mail bundles, and Ed frankly didn’t care if he even had a seat, as long as there were cargo straps to hang on to in the event of turbulence.

Al and Havoc were soon gnawing happily on roasted herbed chicken legs, grilled spicy peppers stuffed with creamy cheese, a chilled carrot salad, buttered rolls and walnut-studded brownies. Maude had torn eagerly into her own meal and frowned in disgust at a dainty cheese and watercress sandwich with the crusts trimmed off, some sliced cucumbers in vinegar dressing, and a miserly sliver of angelfood cake, drizzled with a tiny bit of lemon jelly. She wolfed it down and seemed to be positively sniffing in the direction of the men’s repasts.

She turned and glared at Sheng. “You’re not eating?”

“Indeed. I have a _bento_ of traditional foods from the Five Jewels, my mother’s people.” He held up an elegant stack of small lacquered boxes, bound together by silk cords. Opening the top box, he displayed a small quantity of raw fish and rice generously sprinkled with shredded seaweed and sesame seeds. “This is my luncheon, but the other trays have treats to share. Would you care to try them?”

The lid to the middle tray was removed and Havoc leaned forward, grinning. “Haven’t seen these in ages!”

Al was smiling as he reached in with a pair of chopsticks. “Wow! Didn’t know you could get these around here! Did you make them, Sheng?”

“Freshly fried. They were delivered yesterday. Mother had them sent down with Father, since you can’t find them in Central. Here, Miss Winchell. Try the ones with the eggs—they are the most savory. “

Half a second later, Maude Kelley Winchell had managed to crawl halfway up to the cabin’s ceiling, screaming as she swung from the cargo netting.

Alphonse reached for a rag out of the tool kit. “I do believe she wet herself,” he observed, wiping down the seat she had just bolted out of. He waved up to where she swung, shivering with terror. “You all right, Maude?”

“Those….those….th…” she babbled, pointing at the delicacy on the end of Al’s chopsticks.

“---are fresh-fried and really good. They roll them in spices before they go in the hot oil. Of course, they defang them first. The oil also burns off all the little hairs so they don’t get stuck in your throat.”

“ _You said EGGS!”_

“I said, “ Sheng Yao clarified, “the _ones_ with eggs. The females.”

“I think I’m going to be sick!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought the first time I tried ‘em,” Havoc offered. “But you know, they taste just like crab. Even see a little bitty bit of meat when you tear the legs off.” He tore off another leg and crunched it with obvious enthusiasm. “Eight drumsticks, if you wanna think of it like that.”

“You _barbarian!”_ she railed at the prince.

“Not at all,” he smiled. “Insects have seventy percent more protein than red meat. Besides, the Five Jewels are _crawling_ with them. A perfectly healthy food source, self sustaining and digging them out of their burrows makes it safer for children and livestock. Oh, well,” he shrugged, “if you’re still hungry and don’t want any of the tarantulas*, I’ve still got some sliced fruit in the bottom box.

“Have you ever tried _durian?”_ **

#####

“Ha,haha! Hard to believe that at the turn of the century most of Amestris was at war, had no electricity and rural areas didn’t even have gaslights or running water. We had movies at the end of the 1800’s, and radio is everywhere now. You were born in 1885; now at the age of fifty, the country is in an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity, and you’re going to be the first President of Amestris to appear on a television broadcast. Now, you’re a very youthful looking half-century, Sir. Your health is good and you’ve always been active. Do you think you’ll live to see the scientific advances in 1985, if you reach the century mark?”

“Hmmm…..that’s…..an interesting question, Garrison. Very interesting indeed……I’d…well….hell, Garrison! I could get hit by a bus tomorrow or fall off my horse or…who knows?”

“I can see that question doesn’t make you feel comfortable.”

“Well….a lot of foolish people once thought they wanted to live forever. That’s been the whole point of the Parliament hearings, the so-called Immortality Project and the Old Guard. We saw what came of that. Nobody can know the span of days they have. Mine could have ended on my wedding day when I was shot. What I _do_ know is that you can’t stay in one place forever. You have to keep growing or you’ll go out of your mind. My own alchemy teacher told me himself that stagnation was what made him a miserable man. I don’t want to ever wake up on a morning when I can’t learn something new or make a difference for my country. “

“So, getting back to the topic of the election that’s just a few days away, Mr. President. We know that your approval ratings have risen significantly since the hearings at Parliament. But it’s also true that there is no way to predict an election of this nature. What are your plans if, for some reason, Samuelson wins his bid for the Presidency?”

“If the people elect my esteemed opponent…it will make no difference—in the sense that I will continue to dedicate my life to service. If I’m not elected, I plan to take a position as Ambassador at Large. The idea that I might travel someday across the ocean and walk on another continent fascinates me—and it’s a promise I have made to my husband. Edward has explored nearly every corner of Europa, farther than many other explorers, and he’s brought so much of what he’s learned to the Hohenheim and the other schools of the Collegium of Alexandria. I gave him my word. When I Ieave office—whenever that might be—we’ll go off and see the world together. And if that gives us a chance to offer the hand of friendship and offer a peaceful alliance with other peoples, so much the better.

“Long story short, Garrison: I plan to do all I can for my country—as President or as Ambassador to the world at large. _End of story_.”

#####

 

“I _said_ he’ll pay for the fumigation— _if_ it is necessary.”

Sheng Yao looked embarrassed. “As jokes go, I suppose that was…well…rather—“

“ _Tasteless_ , Sheng. Fuckin’ absolutely tasteless. If you weren’t a prince, I’d wanna kick your ass.” Havoc was still slightly green and had had to dispose of a half-dozen greaseproof bags filled with his own vomit. “That durian crap may taste like heaven to you guys in Xing and the Jewels, but to us Westerners, it smells like---“

“—the farts escaping from the decayed corpse of a skunk stuffed with rotten onions,” Alphonse agreed. “With just a _hint_ of almond custard. That’s how Ed describes it.” It had taken Al nearly an hour to coax Maude down from the plane’s ceiling, and she’d puked three times in the process. Still, he reflected, it _was_ funny. Devious…but funny. In fact it was the very sort of thing that Nina might have come up with—perhaps even _did_ come up with. _I bet you anything she had a hand in this. Who else would have gone to the trouble of making that pink lunchbox?_ Alphonse glanced sidewise at the prince, who was bowing in apology to the pilot. _Hmmm…perhaps those two are more suited to one another than Ed thought._

#####

“Nicely done. You got him sidetracked. Good job.”

“Part of a president’s job. I didn’t want him to start pressing for details about Selim Bradley.”

“Dodged another bullet, yeah?”

“Uh huh. So…what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be landing in North City right about now.”

“Wellllll…. _somebody_ got her pantyhose in a wad about me being stuck in a plane with her for hours. Guess she thought I’d do something sadistic, like have some of Cock’s Flock riding with us---which would have been a brilliant idea—“

“Ed…”

“Hey! I’m innocent!”

Roy gave his husband a dirty look. “Your lips move when you’re lying, Ed. I can tell.”

Ed threw up his hands in protest. “For the record, _goddamn it_ , I had nothing to do with it.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Nope, Nina and Sheng managed just fine without any help from me. They make a good team.”

“They do. Do you think he’s going to speak up before the next ice age?”

“Hey, I keep out of my kid’s love lives and they keep out of mine.” He brightened. “Speaking of which…I know I’ve got a…tight…schedule….but I _think_ I just might be able to… _fit you in_.”

 

#####

“Dr. Tesla! Can you see any image from your end?” Maes stuck his head inside the radio lab at the Hohenheim Institute, Collins and Selim Bradley at his heels. “I set it up, just as you told me.”

The charming Cretan smoothed the ends of his mustache, revealing a smile. “Just so, Maes. Is the lighting sufficient? Remember, electronic transmission by cathode ray requires greater illumination.”

“I set it up in the main family room. It’s the sunniest place in the house. All the curtains are open. Should be light enough. I have the camera pointed at a porcelain cat that Dad bought Nina in Xing when she was a kid. I set it on the turntable of the record player, so it’s revolving about 33 and a third revolutions per minute.”

“Good, my boy. Good! And we are linked in to the tower at Radio Central, so your hopes of broadcasting outside the city are very possible. The signal is very good this morning. I am hopeful of success with our experiment, and if all goes well, this will work when we attempt to broadcast the election. Are we ready?”

Maes nodded. Slipping on his headphones, he leaned into the microphone. He nodded to Tesla, who struck three notes on a vibraphone as a transmission alert. “Good morning, Amestris! This test transmission is being broadcast via Station W2XAX from the Hohenheim Institute in Central. This is an experimental broadcast using a 334-line scanned image with interlacing for higher resolution. The simultaneous audio of this transmission is brought to you by carrier wave via frequency modulation. This video broadcast will last five minutes, for those of you keeping broadcast logs. Thank you.”

#####

“Leave the curtains open?” Ed was ripping at his tie as Roy secured the door behind him. “Kinda bright in here.”

“Hmmm. Never know when the press might show up. Close them.” Roy glanced around the room. It was slightly less cluttered than it had been in the wee hours when Maes was setting up his camera and receiver. What he intended to do to Ed, on the other hand, was not going to take up a great deal of space…or time, if the rock hard urgency of his cock had any say so in the matter.

“HEY!” Ed found himself being flung rudely against the couch cushions. He struggled to get up, and Roy quickly spun him around so he was kneeling on the couch, holding on to the top, facing the other way. His thighs were pride rudely apart, but before he could complain he could feel a hot, greedy mouth nuzzling him right behind his balls. “Damn… _all right_!” He squirmed and Roy shifted his position on the floor. There was a loud crash somewhere in the room. “What was that?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Spread your legs.”

_“Uhhh!!”_ Oh hell, this was just about perfect, Ed decided. Roy had a death grip on his thighs and the slick teasing of that clever tongue was short circuiting Ed’s brain. His eyes popped open in pleasant shock as the tongue shifted upwards and slid between his cheeks. He noticed that Nina’s favorite china cat was lying on the floor in pieces. _Maes can fix it_ , he decided and turned his attention back to Roy’s urgent ministrations.

#####

“The lights are out?” It was a statement, not a question. Tesla adjusted the image. The screen was dim grey and the revolving china cat was out of the camera’s focus. “Have we lost audio? Check the levels, please, Maes.”

“Not that there’s much to hear, but we should hear the radio in the room. Sounds like some crime drama.” He glanced at Collins. “Too early for _Precinct Seven,_ right? At least we can log the audio signal. Can you turn it up, Dr. Tesla?”

#####

“Ohhh…you’re killing me, you bastard!” Roy’s chest was soldered to Ed’s sweaty back, hips grinding hard against his ass. “ _Harder!_ ” His thighs were straining, Roy was biting down hard on the sensitive spot at the back of Ed’s neck and, goddamn it, life just didn’t get any better. Ed let out an enthusiastic yelp of delight and Roy snarled back, affirming their mutual delight in pummeling furniture and pounding into one another.

“You want hard? Then take it…. _uhhhhhgrrghhhh_!!!” The soft symphony on the radio was completely drowned out by the sound of slapping flesh and primal groaning.

#####

“What the hell?” Chris Mustang reached over and flipped the volume control on her television. Confined to a wheelchair, she’d taken quite and interest in the new media and turned her set on in the restaurant to entertain her patrons, who turned out in droves to see the sporadic broadcasts. Wasn’t this one of Maes’ tests? Or was it…?

“ _OHHHSHITOHHSHIT!!_ FUCK! _YEAH!_! HARDER! _HARDER!!!AGGHHHHHHGGGHGGGG!!!!”_

_“Idiots.”_ She switched off the set.

“Was that—?” Rebecca asked, face drained in horror at having heard Roy and Edward’s depraved rampage.

“Yeah. A little campaigning by my idiot boy. Guess he’s trying to prove that he’s…a _hard_ man to beat.”

#####

Once he’d gotten his composure back, Maes switched off the signal feed and leaned into the microphone. “This episode,” he adlibbed,” of _Undercover Dicks_ was brought to you by….”

……TO BE CONTINUED…….

_*Deep fried tarantulas are an actual snack, highly prized in parts of Southeast Asia, very rich in protein. If you’re brave enough to try them, the website Thailand Unique sells them in cans. And no, I haven’t tried them!_

_**Durian—an exceptionally foul smelling fruit that is a delicacy in parts of Southeast Asia._

 


	47. FUTURE TENSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in living memory, the people of Amestris--including Roy Mustang--will cast their votes to see who will lead them into their first years of true democracy...but Roy has a vision that stretches far beyond the outcome at the polls, and at long last he calls BOTH of his teams together to share the secrets that will be Roy's true legacy--as either ruin or triumph.....

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 47: FUTURE TENSE

By The Binary Alchemist 2015

 

                “History first, breakfast later.” Ed was firm about this and his children nodded obediently, putting down their coffee and sweet rolls and getting up from the table. Their father was smartly turned out in a good suit, his heavy blond ponytail smoothed and combed and his tie—for once—not hanging halfway off his collar. Even his waistcoat was neatly buttoned. “C’mon, snap to it!”

                “Somebody’s tense,” Maes muttered under his breath to his sister.

                Nina nodded, reaching for her purse that held the oh-so-important voter registration card. “Somebody didn’t sleep last night. You know how he gets when he’s worried.”

                “Betcha Pops slept like a rock.”

                “Because he knows it’s out of his hands now.” Nina adjusted her glasses and reached over to smooth her brother’s unruly mane, clucking a little at his usually flyaway appearance. “At least he’s lucky nobody identified that television signal with all the…ah—“

                “—sounds of our parents being depraved outside their bedroom—“

                “Right. Nobody has set Daddy and Poppy up on morals charges, so at least that didn’t ruin his chances.” She flicked her brother across the bridge of his nose with a slim finger. “Be _careful_ next time, Tinker! Don’t you _dare_ set up any audio or visual transmission tests around here without _warning_ us! Good grief, “she lowered her voice, “it could have been Uncle Alphonse… _entertaining friends._

                “I heard that.” Ed gently tugged his daughter’s hair. “Not funny, kid.”

                Maes snorted. “Like it’s any secret that he—“

                “Shut it right now,” Ed warned, “or the next hidden camera is going to be set up in your bedroom, son….and I _won’t_ warn you, any more than you warned me. Now,” he jerked his head to where Havoc stood waiting at the front door, “let’s go make history.”

#####

                People in the street were crowded around the front window at Il Gattina, and for once they weren’t admiring the tempting pastries—or the equally tempting young ladies that were serving them. They were transfixed by the black and white image of a dark haired man with a charming smile folding a slip of paper and stuffing it into a ballot box under the watchful gaze of a precinct officer. “It’s Mustang, all right,” one man observed around a mouthful of pastry and cream. “He’s voting right now—we’re actually seeing it happen. Boy, this is something new!”

                “I heard,” the woman beside him added, “that everybody who votes will be seen on this…what they call it? _Television_?”

                “Yeah, just like in the movies, only better!”

                “But smaller! Why can’t they make the pictures bigger?”

                “Bet they will, soon as they figure out how—“

_“ Hey, I’m going down now to vote.”_ A woman in a snug angora sweater was now waving at the camera. If anything, the small picture tube made Gladys Turlough’s breasts look even more impressive _“Anybody coming?”_

En masse, the crowd of businessmen watching the window display stampeded down the street, rushing the whole five blocks to Precinct One to cast their ballots for the candidate of their choice—and the bountiful bosoms that gave them at least two good reasons to applaud the new democracy…

_#####_

                “—and I don’t think it’s gonna be _you_.” Lighting up another cigar, Frank Archer pushed his hat back on his head and offered Donal Samuelson a sympathetic grin. “Man, when General Armstrong cut off your bank account, she cut you off at the knees, didn’t she?”

                “Ah, shut up.” Samuelson was fuming, red faced and frustrated. The polls hadn’t been open more than an hour and some pundits were already calling the election.

                “You gonna concede?”

                “Fuck you! It’s not even noon. “

                “Yeah, well, you haven’t got enough politicians owing you favors to buy this one. Should have sucked a few more cocks and boned a few more women with money. You _did_ bone Armstrong, right? How the hell else did you talk her into footing the bill?”

                Reaching into his pocket, Samuelson pulled out a silver flash and downed a quick shot of liquid courage. Bone _Olivier Freakin’ Mira Armstrong?_ She’d turn his nut sack into a coin purse and wear his dick around her neck as a trophy if he’d even entertained the thought of touching her. “She did it to get at Mustang.” He ignored Archer’s laughter. “But he can’t hold office for more than two terms if he wins…so it’s only a matter of time. If he hadn’t started all this democracy crap, he might have run the show until he died in office.” Slugging down another mouthful of Stray Dog, he smacked his lips and shuddered as the whiskey hit his empty stomach. “Let’s see who he’s smirking at ten years from today….”

#####

                “Miss Winchell? The bus is here. Don’t you want to go down into town and vote today?”

                _Vote?!?_

For half a cen, she’d _walk_ every step of the way to Central just to spit in Roy Mustang’s boyishly handsome face. _He_ was the bastard who’d sentenced her to the Armstrong Institute for Wellness. _He_ was the one she cursed every morning when she endured those hideous yoghurt enemas designed to get healthy bacteria into her guts. _He_ was the one she fantasized about every time she jabbed her fork into another salad or morsel of raw broccoli. Never mind that she could have—some thought should have—gone to the executioner’s block in Xing for striking the Emperor and injuring him. And that loathsome son of his in his prissy white coat and hair longer than a girl’s—feeding her _spiders_! Ohh, what she wouldn’t do to Sheng Yao given half the chance! Every night she would scribble in her diary—oh, and didn’t they want to take even _that_ bit of privacy away from her?—how she would get her everlasting revenge on Mustang, Elric and his vile offspring, Ling Yao and his spawn and that overblown whore Gladys Turlough with her cow udders and her fat ass and bleached blonde head and _coochie_ —imagine, paying someone to bleach her hair down there! She’d pay them back, damn it. She’d pay every last one of them back and they’d be so sorry…

                Strongine Armstrong interrupted her toxic reverie. “MISS WINCHELL, YOU ARE TO BE CONGRATULATED.”

                Ah. _Another_ name on her list of people her world would be better off without. Our Lady of the Enema Nozzle, Queen of Isometric Exercise Torment and Purveyor of the _Worst_ _Food This Side of an Ishballan Monastery._ “What the hell are you talking about?”

                “I HAVE BEEN EXAMINING YOUR MEDICAL CHARTS,”the grim faced giantess bellowed, “AND I AM PLEASED TO NOTE THAT YOU HAVE LOST A TOTAL OF 3.17 KILOGRAMS SINCE YOUR ARRIVAL. THAT IS AN ADMIRABLE START. IF YOU CONTINUE AT THIS RATE, YOU WILL NEED US TO RETAIN THE SERVICES OF A SEAMSTRESS TO REMAKE YOUR CLOTHING BEFORE YOU RETURN TO CENTRAL TO SUIT YOUR MORE SLENDER FRAME.”

                _Three-point-one-seven kilograms??_

She’d _never_ been able to shed so much as a gram of weight—not without fasting until she fainted. She’d always detested her photographs and always ordered her publisher to have the pictures of her on the book jackets altered to make her look more slender.

                What she hadn’t been able to manage on her own had been—well, not effortless, but nowhere near as horrid as her previous attempts of binging and purging and sticking her fingers down her throat.

                Rushing to her mirror, she stared at her reflection, poking her fingers at where she knew her cheekbones were buried.

                Five minutes later, she was scribbling furiously on a pile of complimentary stationary. “I’ll make a fortune!” she crowed triumphantly. “ _The Ultimate Guide to Fitness for Life, by Kelley Winchell…”_

_#####_

                “And so the turnout was better than you anticipated, Nina-san?”

                As if Sheng Yao needed to ask. Nina was radiant. “I’m going back down after lunch. I can’t volunteer since I’m a member of the President’s family, but I can help Maes and Dr. Tesla man the equipment. I just…” she lifted her hands, unable to find the words she needed.

                “You need to be in the middle of this. And that is well. I’m certain you will learn a great deal. This is an important day in your nation’s history. Would you…” he paused, as if searching for the right words. “May I bring you some supper later? Peta-san is coming up later to take over so that Maes-san and David-san can take a break.”

                Edward’s daughter suddenly dropped her eyes, and the awkward silence that followed was quite out of character for her.

                The prince bowed, embarrassed that he had broached the subject. As he turned to leave, she cleared her throat. “Your _ghau_. You gave away the Philosopher’s Stone. It’s empty now, isn’t it?”

                He instinctively touched the silver locket that he’d protected all his life. “Indeed.”

                She frowned for a moment, as if something made her distinctively uncomfortable. Then she nodded, as if coming to a decision. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew something pale and gleaming and no larger than the tip of her own finger.

                She offered it to Sheng, who drew in his breath in wonder. A tiny disc of purest white jade, intricately carved with a triple spiral array— _labyrinthine_ , he had learned. _Her_ array, the first Nina had ever sketched for her studies as an alchemist. On the reverse side, outlined in pure gold, the chrysanthemum crest of the Imperial Family.

                Nina reached around his neck, removing the pendant. She opened it, and placed the tiny array inside the _ghau._ Snapping it firmly closed, she returned it around his neck, her hands lingering briefly on his shoulders as she stood on tip-toe to look into his eyes.

                _“I trust you.”_

                And she was gone…..

#####

                “The polls close at midnight. The results—or at least the projections—will be announced at ten tomorrow, unless there’s some kind of hold up counting the ballots. “

                “You worried?”

                Roy glanced up from his newspaper. “It’s not as if I have any control over this now. “ He scribbled a few notes on the margins, sighed and reached for the carafe of hot coffee, freshly refilled by Sebastian. “Is everybody here? Then let’s get started.”

#####

                Six seats at the table; five of them were filled, as Roy expected. As for the sixth…

                He glanced at Alphonse who shook his head. “Maybe someday, but not now. _If ever._ ”

                “Right, then. Let’s get started.” Rising, Roy addressed the young people seated before him. “This has to be your choice. And Sheng—Peta—this is not a conflict of national loyalty. You know as well as I do this was never just about Amestris. Well, “he corrected, “perhaps at first. Before we knew the full scope of what went on during the Bradley regime and before, with the _Father._ But I’ve had quite a while as Fuhrer and a little while as President to give this some serious thought. I can’t be sure what’s going to happen until the last votes are tallied. But, win or lose, there is far more at stake than the leadership of this country.

                “I’m talking about the _world._ I’m talking about making sure we take our first steps into the world at large—and that we don’t stumble.” He nodded to Edward, who opened the doors and escorted a slender, pale man that Peta instantly recognized:

                “Pyotir!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “ _Tovarich,_ it is so good to see you! It is so long you have been on your travels. We looked for you for years!”

                Edward’s old comrade from his _Stoltovgrad_ days offered her a warm smile before gesturing to Sebastian, who helped him carry in a locked strongbox that seemed far heavier than it seemed for its size. “For those who don’t know him, this is my oldest friend from Drachma, Pyotir Gagarin. He and his husband Nikolai are two of the few people who’ve actually traveled farther than I have—a hell of a lot farther…”

                Roy unlocked the strongbox and passed a bulging portfolio to each of the five at the table. The room became silent, as if its occupants had turned to statues.

                The lettering on the front of each folder read _“The Known World Atlas”._ There were individual tabs with names they had not seen before: _Oceania. Nordtland. Sudtland. The Redlands. The Archipelago. North Polar Regions. South Polar Regions. Affrikah. The Great Desert._

                “This is what lies beyond the Eastern Ocean—beyond Xing and the Five Jewels. _The other side of the world. Beyond Europa_ and everything you _think_ you know. _”_ Ed cleared his throat. “If you want to back out now, put the folders down and walk away.”

                Nobody moved.

                “ _Maes Elric. Nina Elric. Sheng Yao. David Collins. Peta Lobachevsky._ If you stay, your childhood ends now. Possibly your lives. I don’t know and I _won’_ t know until I find out myself—which may be sooner or later, depending on the outcome of this night. On the other hand….if you stay…you will open your eyes upon a bigger world. _Choose now_.”

                It was David Collins—thief, street rat, the ‘Dogshit Davy’ of his boyhood days of hard-scrabble poverty—who finally rose and addressed the once—and future—President of Amestris:

                “Sir…with all due respect, _cut the crap. We’ve got work to do.”_

                Ed’s face split into a huge grin. He nudged his son playfully. “Marry him, son—he’s the smartest person in the room--“

Nina cleared her throat, lifting her eyebrows comically. “--that’s not a blood relative,” Ed finished.

Ed opened the door again and five familiar figures stepped in and saluted.

“ _Kain Fuery.”_ Roy turned to his son. “Maes, you may make hash out of every large engine and automobile you touch, but there’s nobody that understands the intricacy of electronics better than you. And more to the point—you’ve got a bead on how it’s going to be so very significant in the future. You and Fuery are working together from now on.

“ _Heymans Breda.”_ A strong, scarred hand rested on Peta’s shoulder. “Master strategist. One step ahead of everybody else. I never plan a move without consulting him. And none of your friends, I note, plans a move without consulting you, Peta. I think I’ve found you a worthy chess partner. Get to work, you two.

“ _Vato Falman_.” Without a word, the Xingese Prince rose to his feet. “You don’t have Falman’s photographic memory, but you have the drive and the intellect—and the _wisdom_ —to advise your friends to keep the larger world in view. Your strength is your compassion. Falman’s experiences from his days in Briggs will help you learn to keep others from using it against you. _Good luck_.”

“ _Jean Havoc.”_ Roy approached his old friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “You stepped in the line of danger and lost your ability to walk, trying to protect me. David, you took a bullet for my son and I don’t even have to wonder if you’d do it again. Both of you have had to fight your way out of the sort of losses that would have destroyed lesser men. You are the silent strength that keeps everything from falling apart. Don’t let me down—don’t let this country down.

Finally he walked to his daughter’s side. He took her by the hand and led her to the side of Riza Hawkeye. “This is the young woman who is probably going to either be our future Prime Minister or the President of Amestris someday. I would never have made it to the top without your support. Will you stand by my daughter the way you stood by me?”

Riza Hawkeye snapped to attention. She saluted. “ _You don’t have to ask.”_

#####

“If I didn’t know better,” Ed told Roy as they rested on the couch in his office behind closed doors, “I’d suspect you were expecting to die tomorrow.”

Roy snorted in amusements. “Very much the contrary. Everything’s about to _begin_. I’m actually looking forward to it.”

“Settling your affairs?”

“No. Planting the seeds of the future and being confident about the spring to come. My days of worrying and tossing and turning all night are over, Ed. Bradley’s war is over. I’ve made my peace with the people I harmed. And five very, very bright kids are going to change the world for the better. “He glanced at Ed. “Or should I say six? Or is Al ever going to tell anybody other than the two of us and Havoc and Hawkeye?”

“Well…he told Winry. Why else do you think she finally gave him up and went back to Pitt? “

“I wondered about that. Well…you know he’s never going to fight Julia about it. But maybe someday…kids do have minds of their own. Hell,” Roy grinned, “ _ours_ sure as hell have.”

“Enough of all this talk about the future.” Ed slid down onto the carpet at their feet. “It’ll take care of itself. Right now…let’s take care of _us.”_

 

There was the delicious sureness of the hundreds of times they’d done this, but there was a keen pleasure too, as if a lifetime of worry had finally rolled off Roy Mustang’s shoulders and he was finally free to let down his reserve and relish the moments at hand as they came to him. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of how hell-bent he had been on manipulating and controlling his lovers after Hughes and before Edward. Every touch, every drop of sweat—even his moans had been orchestrated to get whatever he needed from the person in his bed.

Now—right now—he was at the mercy of the love of his life, and the only ulterior motive in Roy’s mind was to keep that amazing mouth _right where it was_ for as long as he could hold out.

Ed let the hot steel of his lover’s cock slide out from between his lips and began to nuzzle his way up that splendid, well-loved body, whose scent and taste could still get Ed rock hard without even a hand between his thighs. Catching Roy’s long legs in his arms, he gave a jerk and Roy slid on the leather upholstery into exactly the right position. “You may come out on top tomorrow,” Ed muttered against Roy’s scarred abdomen, “but not tonight. You okay with that, old man?”

“Hey, as long as I can walk before the cameras tomorrow and make my acceptance speech, I’m good.”

“Oh yeah, _Mister President?_ Then accept _this!”_

The lean hips began a slow rotation; Ed never wanted to hurry this. He loved that tight and oh-so-intimate embrace of flesh and flesh as he pressed against his lover, pressing _in_ and feeling that wonderful heat twitching around the crown of his cock. Taking himself in hand, he began churning, rubbing and stretching that welcoming place, that Gateway of Truth that taught him so much about pleasure and giving and taking and _merging_ with someone he loved. _“You okay?”_ He asked it and he _meant_ it, damn it—because if it wasn’t good for Roy, it wasn’t good for Ed either.

A lazy smile told him all he needed to know. “ _Slow_. You like it like that.”

“Uh huh. You too.” All those people who saw Roy Mustang today on that small, flickering tube would only know of the polished, poised soldier and statesman, not the lover that could make Ed’s nerves flare and his body convulse with pleasure so intense that Ed sometimes feared his brain might melt.

“Ahhhh….yeahhhhh….” The ridge of Ed’s foreskin slipped over and deliciously _in_ and then it was as if his body said to hell with slow, steady, patient loving. He needed to fuck, damn it, and from the slickness dripping onto Roy’s belly, Ed wasn’t the only one.

A rosy flush covered the ivory chest, and Roy flung his arms out over the back of the couch, letting his head fall back, sweat beading on his forehead. _“Perfect.”_

Ed drilled into that tight place without mercy now, his head reeling from the heat that gripped him hard _hard_ hard, the smell of sweat and the stickiness of Roy’s cock grazing against Ed’s belly. He slid up, shifting, one foot on the floor, one on the couch, snapping his hips so hard; metal toes digging holes in the carpet—

\--and a hand slid around his hip. A finger slid _in_. Ed sobbed out loud and Roy clenched him harder from deep inside, his legs pulling Edward tighter, closer… “ _Aaahh ggoddddd!”_ Ed scrabbled blindly, reaching for that wet cock that flailed between them. _Goddamn it…why can’t bodies bend…?_ Straining, twisting, even at the risk of losing that finger that was stroking him straight to heaven, Ed risked dislocation of his cervical vertebrae and, by all that was holy, managed to catch the very tip of Roy between his lips.

With a hoarse shout, Roy burst, nearly breaking Ed’s neck and dislodging his cock as he tried to thrust deeper into his lover’s mouth. As for Edward—he was too far gone to care, yelping in delight as the tight ring _squeezed_ him, right under the head of his shaft.

Roy’s body had such a fierce grip on him there was an audible ‘ _pop!’_ as Ed disengaged from his lover, collapsing onto the President’s chest and shuddering as the last drops stained the fine leather upholstery.

“Are you all right?”

Ed tried to shift his head. He heard something _else_ go ‘ _pop!’_ and the pain in his neck—as soon as he could feel it—was very unpleasant indeed.

He managed to lift his hands into position. They clapped—and warm golden energy seeped into the back of his neck and he felt a third ‘ _pop!’_ as his neck slid back into alignment.

Sliding into a sitting position, he grinned at Roy. “That last trick is gonna take some practice.”

Roy just laughed at the love of his life. “What the hell, Ed—we’ve got a long life ahead of us…”

 

…TO BE _CONTINUED_ ….

 

 

 


	48. BRAVE NEW WORLD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years have passed since Roy's election--and it is now the bittersweet day that Roy, Edward, Alphonse and Izumi prepare to set off for the Western Hemisphere, where an even larger world awaits them...

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 48: BRAVE NEW WORLD

BY The Binary Alchemist, 2015

 

SPRING 1936     

_“We’ve got ten years. Let’s make the most of it.”_

                Those were Roy Mustang’s words to his expanded team the day he was inaugurated for his first term of office as the elected president of Amestris.

The plan that Breda and Peta had come up with had been simplicity itself. “Living to a hundred is not that strange these days,” Breda informed them. “Okay. You’ve been elected. Baring some sort of disaster or a lucky assassin, I’m wagering you’re gonna get a second term, easy. By 1945 they’ll elect your successor and you’ll step down in 1946. That’s when you set yourself up as an ambassador at large. Set up your base in Oceana if you can—all those islands give you plenty of hiding places and the people there are going to be good allies if you win them over now. Start making overtures. Send Ed and Al down there now to start with breaking the ice. Let’s face it, Sir—the reason the rest of the world has steered clear of Europa is because we’ve got a really bad reputation as being war mongers. They’ve sent explorers to Europa and the ones that lived to come back all say the same thing—“

“—Europeans—especially Amestrians and Aerugoans—are trigger happy sons of bitches,” Ed finished. They want us to keep our madness to ourselves. But Pyotir has hooked me up with crew of an Oceanic exploratory vessel, the _Uluru_. Female captain named Coorah Yindi. She got on well with him and says she’ll meet with me and Al. She’s a Pitanjarah, a Tribal elder in the Northern Territory, a retired government official and—“he took a deep breath, “she’s an _alchemist.”_

Roy looked surprised. “Really?”

Alphonse nodded enthusiastically. “You’ll never believe what she said when she heard that Ed and I are alchemists too. ‘ _Cooma el ngruwar, ngruwar el cooma. Illa booka mer ley urrie urrie’. ‘Everything is one and one is everything. The soul cannot die.’_ I _really_ want to meet these people.”

Mustang nodded. “We’ll make it happen. What next, Breda?”

. “You do what Ed’s been doing for years, gone six months—a year, whatever, and you come home for a while. You get to spend time here with us—as much time as you need. And over the years as you come and go, you change your appearance _gradually._ Dye your hair silver. Learn some make up techniques to look older than you are. Maybe even get a cane or walking stick—maybe an eye patch. I think that you can fake that until….let’s see…around 1985. Then let it be known that you guys are retiring someplace warm and sunny—someplace small and tropical---and _out of the spotlight._ Let yourself fade from current memory, until people assume that you guys have been laid to rest somewhere in the islands after living a long life of service. Dig some graves in the middle of nowhere if you think that would help.

_“Then_ ….you come back. You might need to take a new name and—I don’t know, Boss—maybe let your hair grow out and start playing up the Xingese side of your looks. Only the family and the team—now and in the future—will really know who you are. “

                “What family?” Roy wanted to know.

                Peta just grinned. “You let _me_ worry about _dot_.”

#####

                “Julia… _please…”_ Alphonse squeezed his old lover’s hands tightly, his eyes brimming from emotion. “Just let her see me. Just once. I’m not taking her away. I gave you my word, I would never take her away from Milos. I want—I _need_ her--to know her father loves her. That I didn’t just walk away and never come back. I don’t want her to hate me the way Ed hated Dad for so long.”

                And that, in the end, was the one argument that Julia Creighton was not able to disregard.

                At the age of six, Katherine Creighton was exquisite—a delicate beauty cast in the same mold as her freedom fighter mother, but with the same golden eyes as her father, the true legacy of her Xerxean ancestry from the line of Hohenheim. It was all Alphonse could do to keep from weeping openly, hugging the child tightly to his heart, but Katherine was shy and confused, not knowing what to think, bright eyes moving nervously from her mother to her father, shying back and not saying a word.

                It was her cousin Maes who broke the ice, having never met a stranger in his life. Maes swooped Katherine up off her feet and into the air. “HEY! Look at _you! You’re gorgeous!”_ His smile was guileless and as charming as ever. “I’m Maes! We’re cousins, you and me. You’re just a pretty little ginger kitten, aren’t you? And you have eyes just like mine. Lucky gold eyes. Can I call you Kit?”

                Julia’s coolness broke down into laughter as she and Alphonse, Edward and Nina watched Maes romp around the room, a giggling Katherine riding on his broad shoulders, holding on to his long hair like a horse’s reins.

                By tea time, Katherine—now Kit—was cuddled on her father’s lap, eyes bright with wonder as she chatted easily with her new-found family.

                At last, Julia signaled for her guests to leave. Alphonse reached into his pocket, drawing out a delicate golden _ghau_ pendant, capped with a polished cabochon of golden amber, the same shade as her father’s eyes. “Nina made this for you, Kit. It’s a special locket for memories, so you can keep the people you love close to your heart. You can put a lock of your mother’s hair in there, so part of her is always with you.”

                To his astonishment, Kit kissed him. “Can I have a lock of yours?”

#####

SPRING 1938

Peta Lobachevsky had had no interest in being a bride but was _most_ enthusiastic to be a mother.

Two years after Roy’s first inauguration in 1936, Peta placed Maes’ son in the President’s arms. “And here is little _Eduard,”_ she announced. “Drachman spelling und pronunciation. Keep the name in the family, since—“ she nodded and smiled at two year old Xin Rin, presently riding on his grandfather Edward’s shoulders and looking down curiously at his infant cousin, “—you may want to get those names back when you come home as their descendents. We have our little ‘Roy’—now we got an ‘Edward’. I get us an ‘Alphonse’ next time.”

                Nina, smiling at her prince, laid a gentle hand on her swollen belly. “We’re going to call her _Izumi_.”

                “ _Da._ The gold eyes _uff_ the babies? _Dot_ you can make up with contact lenses. “She grinned at the friend who would father four of the five children she would bear in her long lifetime. “And David and I will manage—I make sure his bloodline carries on. I know, Maes, what _dot_ means to you, to have a child from your husband to love. I tell you,” she leaned down and kissed the top of her firstborn’s blond head, “we manage. We take care of the future for you, Poppy Roy. Nina and I will see to _dot_!”

#####

               

SPRING, 1946

                “I bet they’re _kissing_ up in there!”

                “Kissing? Yeuuuchhhhhhghhh! Ewww! _Really_?”

                “They do it a lot when nobody’s looking.” Crafty golden eyes shifted towards the top of the stares and to the right where the Master Suite was. It was ten in the morning and the doors were still locked. “ _Let’s wake ‘em up.”_

“Brother, no!” Alfons’ blond brows knitted together; he’d always been a bit of a worrywart compared to his reckless older brother. “Eduard—we’re gonna get in _trouble!_ Mama and Papa won’t like it, and Poppy and Da will be angry. It’s stupid!”

                Eduard gave his brother Afons a playful sock on the arm. “C’mon. We’re _Elrics._ We’re _supposed to do stupid shit—OWWW!!!”_

                A pale hand snatched the back of the six year old’s collar and hauled him backwards away from the stairs. “ _Not on my watch_.”

                A stubborn lower lip poked out far enough to perch a pigeon on it. “You’re not the boss of me, _Mustang!”_ A chubby finger poked the oldest boy in the chest. “Fuck off!”

                Eight year old Xin Rin “Roy” Mustang Elric looked down over the rims of his glasses and offered his young cousins a smirk that would have done his step-grandfather proud. “Aunty is going to scrub out your mouth with saddle soap for swearing like that—and when she does, I’m selling tickets and popcorn. Now _scram_ , Pipsqueak.” He affectionately ruffled the blond mane of the younger child. “You too, Al. You have my permission to knock some sense into your brother’s head…if you can.”

                A middle finger was proudly displayed. “ _Bite me_ ,” Eduard crowed rebelliously and made a mad dash for the second floor suite.

                _“Aiya!”_ Rin shook his head in disgust. And to think he’d _offered_ to babysit his five younger cousins just so that Uncle Maes and Aunty Peta and Uncle David could go down to the aerodrome early and make sure all the radio equipment was safely stored aboard _Discovery_.

                They’d only been gone one hour and fifteen bloody minutes, during which little Dimitri had gotten himself lodged inside the grand piano, Ivan had poured a pitcher of syrup over Sergei’s head and the eldest of the five—the two demons—had made up their minds to storm the master bedroom and wake up poor Poppy and Da, who needed all the rest they could get before starting on their long voyage to Oceana.

                He considered his options…and then he touched the _ghau_ pendant engraved with his very first array. He smacked his palms together. There was an ear-splitting _ZZZAWWAAAAHHHSSSSS!_ , accompanied by a blinding flash of orange light. The staircase transmuted instantly into a slide as the steps melted into each other. Eduard, giggling madly, slid all the way down, landing at Rin’s feet. “I hope you got rug burns on your belly button,” he intoned. “Now, beat it, Ed….or Poppy’s gonna beat _you_!”

               

                “He’ll have to stop laughing first.” A tall figure in a deep blue dressing gown appeared on the landing, hair tousled and grinning down at the eldest of his grandchildren. “Ed! Al! Go on, now. Take your brothers outside and go play in the garden—and try not to get yourselves killed. Last thing I need before l leave is another big pile of paperwork.” Roy gestured at the damaged staircase. “You can fix this, Rin?”

                The eight year old screwed up his face comically. “Ummm….I know the _theory_ …but…”

                The retired general slapped the landing with his scarred palms and the wood, carpet and nails melted magically back into their original forms. Rin’s namesake padded down the steps in his bedroom slippers and gave the boy an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “At least you didn’t try to transmute your cousin, tempting as that might be sometimes, son.”

                Rin smiled back at his Poppy. “He’d make a great toilet seat though, wouldn’t he?”

#####

                An _Oceanian_. A woman from the other hemisphere. Winry didn’t know what to say. Captain Yindi was tall and wiry and her skin was the color of strong-brewed coffee. Her most striking features were her eyes—so keen and piercing, telling without words of the fierce intelligence of the Pitanjarah woman.

                But Winry liked her, strange as Coorah Yindi seemed. The woman’s Amestrian was oddly accented, but there was no mistaking her competency. “Young Sarah will stay with me, Dr. Winry. We will learn much from one another. _Trust her_.”

If Sarah’s father, Pitt Renback, had still been alive he’d have thrown a fit and ordered Sarah to stay in Resembool, safe in Europa. But her daughter would be traveling in caravan with her Uncles Edward and Alphonse and Roy, as well as her older brother Maes. “Mom, there’s so much I can learn about the animals in the rest of the world,” Sarah had told her enthusiastically. “I’ll be one of the first ever veterinarians from Europa to study in Oceana! I’m so glad you’ll let me go!”

                She would wonder privately if the presence of Jaya Lowe on the voyage as the mission botanist had anything to do with her daughter’s determination not to be left behind…but she kept that to herself.

                In the end, she sighed. Sarah was grown and was as headstrong as Winry had been in her youth. “Maes—take care of your sister, okay?”

                _This is not the first time I’ve been left behind by an Elric male,_ Winry thought as she watched the trio motor away out of the Rain River valley, heading towards the station. _Elrics leave. They always leave…but they do keep their promises,_ Winry told herself as she headed back to her automail studio. _They’ll be back. They’ll all come back to Resembool someday. They may never write. They may forget to call…but sooner or later, they’ll all be back—at least long enough for some homemade apple pie…._

#####

                “We leave so we can come back. It still sucks.” Edward cast an appreciative glance across the parklands of Rose Hill.

                “For somebody who once burned down his family home just so he wouldn’t be tempted to run back, you’ve gotten sentimental, Ed.” Handsome in his riding clothes, Roy slid his arm easily around his husband’s shoulders. He smelled of sweat and horse and after all these years Ed hardly minded. He knew saying goodbye to his horses would be difficult. But with both Maes and Nina’s families ensconced at Rose Hill he knew that none of his precious mares and foals would be neglected, especially since Roy had spent part of the past ten years training up Selim Bradley as his stable hand. The homunculus had grown in intelligence and common sense since recovering from his mental trauma with the help of Ed and Maes. Spending his days caring for the horses and barn cats and riding to his heart’s content had brought Selim profound happiness—even more so when Mrs. Bradley had gone into a lovely nursing home and Selim was offered a permanent home in the old greens keeper’s cottage at Rose Hill. In the distance, Ed could see Selim cantering on Cirrocco’s most recent descendent—yet another proof to the two men that life did, indeed, go on…and that all would be well in the years to come.

                Ed glanced at his watch. “We got..let’s see…about three hours. You got time.”

                “Time?”

                “To say goodbye to Hughes.”

                Roy pulled his husband into deep, lingering kiss, gloved fingers playing softly through the tangled golden hair that would never tarnish with the passing of time. If their luck held, he expected to be kissing this man for a very, very long time yet to come.

#####

                “ _Hughes_. It’s me.” A sheaf of fragrant lilies was laid on a grassy grave that had been well tended for all the many years since his lover had been murdered by Envy. There was another bouquet on the peaceful grave, bearing a note ‘ _To Grandpa Maes from Hugh’._ Roy had seen Gracia, Elycia, Cameron and their young son before stopping by the cemetery. Who knew it would be so hard to say goodbye—at least for now—to a woman he had once resented for sharing Hughes’ bed. Whatever else Roy Mustang had done in his life, he would never regret mending that fence. They were family now, and he would never stay away from the Hughes family for very long.

                “This seems stupid. I mean…you’re in the Gateway. You’re _everywhere_. I don’t know why I come out to your stone, but…” He folded his long legs and settled down in the grass, hands folded under his chin.

                “We should have grown old together—two old soldiers. Together. But…that’s not the way it played out. We never got that ‘golden future’ we used to daydream about when we were cadets. When I saw you in the Gateway the day I got my sight back, you warned me not to keep so closed up inside. Glad I listened. You knew what I needed, more than I do. Now I’m asking for your help.

                “Maes, _none_ of us wants to live forever. That’s not natural. It’s not right and frankly the thought of it gives me the creeps. Izumi acts brave, but she’s scared to death of outliving Sig. It’s going to happen one day and if anything kills Izumi Curtis, it would be a broken heart. Let’s just say we’re already prepared for that.

                “Ed, Al and I all want to have good lives. We want to watch the grand kids and great grand kids grow up…but there’s something satisfying about knowing that one day you can lie down and rest, even for a little while. I don’t have a clue how long we have, but at least we have each other.

                “Maes…help us to make the most of what we’ve been given. Let me make a difference in this world. That whatever name I have—whatever identity, wherever Ed and Al and Izumi and I go, that we can change things for the better. Keep us sane. Look after our families.

                “I…guess I’ll see you when I see you, old friend. I’ve got to get down to the _Discovery._ Ed’s waiting. Everything’s ending—and everything’s about to begin.” Rising, he brushed the grass off his trousers and adjusted his glasses. In the distance, he heard the noonday chime from the clock tower of the Hohenheim—his first great step towards achieving a lasting peace for Amestris, for Europa and for lands he hadn’t yet dreamt of.

“Here’s to the _golden future….”_

...TO BE CONCLUDED….

 


	49. CONCLUSION: "THE ONCE AND FUTURE ALCHEMISTS"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Joy at the start/Fear in the Journey/Joy at the Coming Home..."  
> (Along The Road, by Dan Fogleberg)  
> In which we are assured Love Never Dies, Friendships Last Forever--and Ed STILL owes Roy 520 cenz....

OUR LIVES, CH 49: CONCLUSION: THE ONCE AND FUTURE ALCHEMISTS

 

By The Binary Alchemist 2015

 

_Havoc--_

_The cold shock of the other side of the ocean was beyond anything I could have ever expected, and we tumbled and clung to each other, kissing and laughing like idiots. “Careful,” Ed spluttered. “You’re gonna drown me, asshole!” We crawled up to the shore, grinning like fools. There was nobody to see us at this late hour, so my hands crept to where my hands always want to go. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” Ed shouted above the crash of the surf. “You wanna get sand pounded up your ass?”_

_“Not an issue. I’m not the one who’s about to get pounded.”_

_That was the evening we made two very enlightening discoveries about Oceana:_

_One—ghost crabs come out to feed at night. The burrow up from the sand in search of whatever dead fish or such washes up on the shore. A male human posterior, gleaming white in the moonlight, may not be decaying, but to a battalion of hungry crabs, it’s a banquet._

_Two—the Shore Patrol along the Great Barrier Reef, thankfully, has a sense of humor. They didn’t even put the cuffs on us. They laughed like hell, though. “Bloody shite, and they told us Amestrians were so dangerous! ‘Feckin’ alchemists, blowin’ up the soddin’ world’, they said. Don’t look all that impressive to me, mates! If that bum of yours was any whiter, Roy Mustang, you’d outshine the moon! “_

_Al laughed so hard he spilled his beer, and Sig and Izumi weren’t much better, holding each other up for support as they cackled at us. “And so,” Ed intoned solemnly as he dug the sand out of his crack, “the world famous Flame Alchemist embarked on his diplomatic career, representing his nation with all dignity and decorum—HEY! Cut it out!” A tendril of fire spat out from my hands, missing his rump by inches._

_There were no red carpets. No fanfare of trumpets. No parades like the ones we hosted the first time Prince Claudio arrived in Amestris. No, it was a boatload of sun burnt, laughing men catching me with my pants down—quite literally. This, I suspect, sets the tone of the next phase of my life. As my new friend Cobber Hamilton told the press a few hours ago, “Mustang—he’s just some bloke, y’know? Bit of a know-all, but he’s all right. We’re mates, I reckon.”_

_Greater praise in Oceana? “Not effin’ likely.”_

               

_With love to you all from Your Foreign Correspondent, drunk on his ass on a tropical beach and safe, along with his crew--_

_Mustang_

                Havoc folded the letter and wiped the tears from his eyes. He had laughed so hard it had taken nearly ten minutes to read the missive. Hawkeye shook her head. “What—you don’t approve?” Havoc teased, as he passed the letter to a chuckling Gracia and Elycia, sharing the couch with Nina. “Okay, so it’s a little randy. Okay, maybe a lot. Who knew he could write like that? It’s hilarious! Who knew he was a born storyteller?”

                “Bullshit artist, more likely,” Nina suggested.

                “The man’s got a way with words,” Fuery agreed. “That’s so out of character for him. He was always so straight-laced and strict.”

                David Collins looked thoughtful. “Kain’s right…but you know, he’s spent his whole life being the responsible one. Officer in the military. Head of state. So much riding on his shoulders. And now,” he gestured to the letter, “he’s…what did it say?”

                “He’s ‘ _just some bloke’_.” Falman quoted with a smile. “Only we know better.”

                “He sounds _young.”_ Gracia looked thoughtful. “This is the Roy Mustang Maes always told me about. He sounds happy.”

                “—they’re on the radio.” Sheng poked his head out of the library. “I’ll turn it up.”

                Everyone dashed inside the library where the huge radio console that Maes had built was humming and crackling. Havoc twiddled with the tuning knob and suddenly a familiar voice filled the room.

                _“---This is Maes Elric, coming to you from the beautiful western coast of Oceana in our first ever trans-ocean broadcast. Good morning, Central! We’re coming to you from the beautiful city of Perth, where Former President Mustang, Professor Edward Elric, Captain Alphonse Elric and—“there_ was a pause as Maes struggled to keep from laughing _, “—a housewife—and alchemy master Izumi Curtis met this morning with the regional Parliament, where a vote was cast in favor of establishing an Amestrian embassy for the first time on Oceanian soil. A resolution also passed which will establish a new branch of Mustang’s Collegium of Alexandria schools, which will allow students from Europa to come and study abroad on student visas, and for Oceanians to study at the Hohenheim Institute in Central, the Chrysanthemum Palace Institute in Xing, at Stoltovgrad in Drachma, and at the academies in Creta and Aerugo and in Nihon. Edward Elric, Izumi Curtis, Sig Curtis and Coorah Yindi have agreed to work together to bring this to fruition. Famed Xingese expert in medical alchemy, Dr. Kenichi Chen, will discuss the possibility of establishing the first medical university of the Collegium in Perth._

_“Captain Alphonse Elric will be meeting with government officials to discuss opening new trade routes and airspace for travel between the two continents. Emperor Ling Yao of Xing has offered his cooperation. It is expected that both parties will convene in Xing in the next six months to establish the guidelines._

_“And on a personal note, to my family and friends back in Amestris—it’s been a hell of an adventure—whoops! Sorry…but I’ve been cussing by accident on the radio since I was three. Anyway, I’ll be returning back to Central in style in a few weeks, as the airship Kakadu makes its first ever voyage to our side of the world. We’ve made some amazing new friends over here, and I’m looking forward to introducing them to the locals back in Amestris…only they’ve already said they don’t like our beer. They say it’s like making love on the beach—it’s fucking close to water. Ahhahhaaaahaaaa!---“_

                A furious Ed cut his son off _. “—give me that goddamn microphone, or I’ll---“_

_“Ed! You’re swearing too! I knew you were going to make a fool of yourself on the radio again—“           “ED! Alphonse! Maes! Boys! Don’t make me come over there and---“_

_“Izumi, calm down. You don’t want to make yourself sick—“_

                There was the sound of a snap, followed by a very loud _FWOOOOOOSSHHH!_

The calm, professional voice of Roy Mustang filled the room. _“And to all our friends, loved ones and countrymen in Amestris and Xing, the crew of the Discovery sends its best wishes. Good night from Oceana. This is Roy Mustang, signing off…until we meet again…”_

_#####_

SPRING, 2003

                He swung down the alley behind the old familiar bakery, still prospering under the Hughes family. He’d stop in later when he had a minute, if only for the pleasure of seeing the bakery girls ooh and ahh over the handsome young pilot with the long blond ponytail who arrived from Affrika over the weekend in time to teach classes in rocketry at the Hohenheim. “Hope they’re into older men,” Edward snickered to himself. Al was supposed to be picking up the cake for Nina’s 100th birthday. Hopefully he wouldn’t pick up anything _else_.

                There was a loud jangle from his front pocket. He still hadn’t decided if mobile phones were worth the trouble. It was like everybody around you had you on a leash; there was no real privacy. “Yeah? What is it?”

                “It’s me, Daddy. I got your message. What’s up?”

                “Hang on a sec, kiddo. Lemme find a place to talk where it’s a little more private.” He rounded the corner to Central Park and shooed a flock of hungry pigeons off an empty bench. “I was heading to my first lecture, but I wanted to wish my little girl a happy birthday.”

                There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. “I’m a hundred years old today! I haven’t been your little girl since…hell, since _forever.”_

                “Bullshit,” her father answered. “Did you see the headlines? You’re all over the front page. ‘Former Prime Minister Nina Mustang Elric celebrates her 100th birthday today. The famed stateswoman, feminist author and human rights activist has chosen to celebrate at the family’s Rose Hill compound in lieu of a grand gala as was expected.’”

                “My century isn’t going to be anything compared to the headlines when the four of you come out.”

                “Blame your husband. Sheng was the one who figured out that we _were_ aging. Slowly, but definitely _not_ immortal. Good thing we sent him to that genetics institute in Frisco Bay, or we’d never have known the truth. Not like we’re gonna dry up and croak tomorrow…there’s still time enough for life.”

                “And love. “

                _“Especially_ love. You better believe it. And he’s describing it as ‘rare cellular damage’ resulting from being at Ground Zero on the Promised Day. And he’s going to put a good spin on it, so it doesn’t sound like anything any sane person would want to happen to them. Last thing we want is some crazy assholes in the government to start trying to make Philosopher’s Stones and Homunculi again.”

                There was a long silence on the end of the phone. Finally, Nina sighed. “And if they do?”

                Ed shrugged. “We kicked their asses before, baby girl. We’ll do it again if we have to.”

#####

                Ivan Elric, named after his uncle Jean Havoc, predicted ‘there’s gonna be a hell of a row when the story gets out, Poppy.”

Ivan was right. There were investigations—screaming editorials, the right and the left wing spin doctors foaming at the mouth over the fact that four innocent people got stuck in the dead center of a cosmos-splitting holocaust as the Father tried to consume what it thought was God Itself. With Bradley long dead, there was no need to tip-toe around the facts, and when the real truth of what occurred finally came out in the second hearings on the Promised Day, the reaction was so violently negative in the press that the quartet agreed among themselves that the chances of somebody trying to capture a creature from the Gate and create a national transmutation array or even make a new septet of Sins—well, it just didn’t seem likely. “We’ll just have to keep our eyes open,” Izumi sighed. “But it’s better by far not to have to hide. Better than empty graves and dyed hair and telling lies. That’s what gets people in trouble in the first place.”

#####

                Kit Elric, who had taken the place of Peta Lobachevsky at the Hohenheim Academy when the much loved Headmistress retired, straightened her uncle’s tie before he greeted the freshman class. “Aw, Kit, why do I even bother with shit like this?”

                She pecked him affectionately on the cheek. “Shhh, Uncle. They’re kids. They are going to lose the sense of awe as soon as you open your mouth. You can at least _try_ to make a good first impression.”

                Ed ruffled her hair affectionately as if she were still a child. _That was Riza Hawkeye talking for damn sure_ , he thought. An uprising in Creta had cost Katherine Creighton Elric her mother, just as Julia had lost her own parents the same senseless way. Being adopted by Jean and Riza had been the best thing that ever happened to all three of them, and it was so comical at times to hear Hawkeye’s admonitions coming out of Kit’s mouth.

                Kit swatted Edward playfully with her notebook and shooed him out the door with a laugh that sounded like pure Havoc. “Good luck!”

                “Yes Ma’am!”

#####

                “I’m your teacher. I’m Edward Elric. You probably heard of me.”

                A copper-skinned boy from the Dakota States raised his hand. “You’re that really really old guy, right? The one that got all mutated by alchemy?”

                _Cripes_ , Ed sighed to himself. _Here we fuckin’ go again._ “Yeah. _And?”_

“Mom showed us your pictures from before, when you went exploring. You got older, some. When did you start getting shorter?”

                _“DAMN IT!!!”_

#####

               

                ”So? How was class?”

                “It sucked. I thought Maes was bad as a kid. Fuckin’ kids ate me alive, little smartasses. Jeeze!” Yanking off his tie, Ed flopped wearily on the couch in Roy’s office. The rug with the Presidential Seal was gone, and Ed didn’t miss it. The green leather couch had been reupholstered after all the abuse Roy and Ed had given it. Ed reflected with satisfaction that there was still time to abuse it some more—and break a few more bed slats too. “What are you up to?”

                Dark brows lifted a fraction as Roy tapped his fingers against his computer monitor. “An intriguing proposal. You remember Maude Kelley Winchell?”

                Ed rolled his eyes. “In my nightmares. Sheesh, what a bitch.”

                “It seems I’m being flooded with offers from assorted ghost writers. Seems everybody’s keen on reading my biography. There was even a query about the unreleased manuscript for _Fire and Vice_. The rights are up for sale, and Elycia’s kid made me a counter offer.”

                Ed sat up. “I’m listening.”

                “Hugh is running the publishing company. He says that there’s a big interest in us since we got back and since the whole story’s come out. He’s suggesting—“Roy paused for effect, “—that I write it myself.”

                “Pffft! You can’t write.” Ed plopped back down onto the cushions. “You told him no way, right?”

                Roy didn’t answer. Smiling to himself, he rose and drew the curtains aside. “Moon should be up in about an hour. Let’s go for a ride.”

                A blond eyebrow lifted cynically. “Do you mean ‘ride’ as in ‘let’s go to the stables’, or ‘ride’ as in ‘let’s go to the stables and get naked’. “

                “I’ve got a new double saddle from Ishbal. And some Oil of the Moon.”

                “Depends on who gets to ride,” Ed countered, “and who gets _ridden_.”

                “I’ll flip a coin. You got any change?”

                Ed dug in his pockets. “Maybe 520 cenz.”

                “I’ll have that back, thank you.” Roy held out his hand. “You said you’d pay me back when we became a democracy. That was over fifty years ago. You owe me _interest_.”

                _“Oh yeah?”_ A hot, wolfish grin spread over Ed’s face. He sauntered over to his once and future lover and grabbed Roy Mustang by the collar, biting him on the lower lip. _“Take it out in trade, asshole!”_

                “ _Not_ on the desk. I just got the router set up. Hold that thought,” Roy’s hand firmly cupped Ed’s hardening cock through his trousers, “and meet me in the stables for a midnight ride. I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

                “You won’t stand me up?” A quick nip to the earlobe made Roy shiver. Some things really _did_ get better with age.”

                “I’ll stand you up all right—and bend you over. Now let me get some work done. You’re distracting as hell, Ed…and I can’t wait to hold you in the dark….”

#####

                Trying manfully to ignore the throbbing in his groin, Roy settled back at his desk with a groan. There was a touch of arthritis in his joints, but as Sheng said, exercise was the best thing for arthritis and what better exercise was there than a moonlight ride with the man he loved?

                Logging in to his network, Roy reread Hugh Howe’s book proposal. “Can’t write, huh?”

                Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, he began typing…

                _Everybody tells kids ‘don’t play with matches; you’ll set the house on fire.’ Nobody ever thought to tell me ‘don’t play with matches AND alchemy’. As such, my career started with a bang. Literally._

_Let me tell you about the night I accidentally burned the whorehouse down….._

               

THE END—of the Half Lives Trilogy, and

THE BEGINNING—of The Memoirs of Roy Mustang….thanks for reading!

The Binary Alchemist,

7/11/2010 to 2/28/2015

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. What a long, strange journey it's been! Not counting the side stories, the Half Lives Trilogy took 4 years and seven months to write 118 chapters--an exhausting total of 426,079 words. I think I'm gonna go eat some chocolate now...  
> If you've read all this nonsense, please let me know what you thought of it.   
> Thank you, bless you and thanks again for inspiring me.  
> Until next time--  
> Love,   
> Aunty Binary


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